Elessar MUSH
by elessarmush
Summary: Umbar is a city in turmoil. The delicate balance of power between the Tower Lords and the Priests of Sauron has been shattered by the War of the Rings, leaving the people in confusion and fear. Many are moving to consolidate their own power, or to topple those who appear weak. But not everything is as it appears, and a Delegation sent from Gondor presents a unique opportunity...
1. A Prayer to the West

**Author's Note: Please Read our Author Profile! This is a work of Role-Play collaberation, and there is a lot of story context outside of these chapters. :) If you'd like to participate, you can connect with us at using the link provided in the profile.  
**

March 04, 3019

_Shrine of the Heroes_

_Like the Great Hall below, a window opens to the West–where fallen Numenor lies beneath the wave–and serves as the primary focus of worship. As all other things about the Seaward Tower, this chamber is severe and minimalist in its decor, yet somehow elegant in such simplicity. White curtains can be drawn across the archway when the Tower Lord wishes to worship in private._

_Illumination is provided strictly by the sun by day; and a single oil lamp at night. The lamp hangs from the ceiling, shielded so that it will not reflect in the window. The only statuary in this shrine is sparse–white marble reliefs of Ar-Pharazon and Ar-Adunakhor–and mounted upon either wall. Three hard benches, with room for perhaps seven men abreast, face the window._

* * *

The sea breeze this evening is warm, comforting, and releases all stillness or stifle from the rooms of Seaward Tower. This shrine, lit dimly by a single lamp, is almost as dark as the night outside — and indeed, through the western window, the stars shine clearly.

And that is where the eyes of Karasor are fixed, standing before the portal. His hands are folded behind his back, and the breeze but stirs the light scarf atop his head.

Light steps sound in the hallway and pause. The curtain is drawn aside, and Farielle comes in. She is partway up the short aisle when she sees the other figure there. Stopping, she hesitates a moment, then turns to go back out again.

"You need not leave on my account, my Lady."

The man's words echo upon the solid stone of the room, though he has not moved an inch, or even a glance, from his station at the window. "Indeed, perhaps you share my inclination to send a prayer to the west."

A prayer to the west. Farielle pauses again, her slender figure backlit by the faint light from the hall, then half-turns. "I like to look westward," she answers, somewhat ambiguously.

And perhaps it is the influence of darkness, but her voice comes again, asking where she might otherwise have remained silent. "If it does not offend – what prayer would you send?"

A gust of warm wind billows in Karasor's scarf, and for a moment, the edge of a smile can be glimpsed there upon his lips. "A prayer of peace for the souls of the fallen." He says, one hand unfolding to slowly motion to his side at the window — and invitation, perhaps.

"That our sunken fathers of the west may find the tall halls of Mandos, where we shall meet again."

Farielle comes forward quietly and stops before the window, a pace away from the man. "Peace," she repeats, her voice little more than a breath of air itself. "That is not a request often heard here," she continues. "Many, I think, desire war."

"Foolish is the dead man who desires war, my Lady." Answers Karasor, a small chuckle even now rising from him. "But of the living, yes, this is true. However," Only as she approaches does he finally turn to look upon Farielle. "My prayers are not for the living."

"Why pray for the dead?" Farielle watches out the window, her eyes focused on the stars. If she feels his gaze, she doesn't turn to meet it, but stands quite straight and still. "They are gone to where-ever the shades of men go. It is the living who stand in need."

"I pray for the dead, for such prayers may yet guide them to their destination." A finger now traces a path before him in the sky, touching upon one star, pausing, and connecting it to the next with a swift sweep.

"Living men do not need, nor do they heed, prayer. If you wish anything for the living, you must be prepared to take it upon yourself to see it done, if you do not wish to waste your precious hopes."

West and west and still farther. Farielle strains to see – her figure rigid in the lack-light. But at last, her shoulders sag and she turns away. Her eyes move to Karasor and stay there on his half-seen face. "Yes," she muses. "You are quite correct." Her mouth moves in a small smile. "Though I do not think any prayers of ours can reach the dead."

"Oh, do you not?" Karasor's weathered hand remains hanging in the air upon the last start he deems fit to touch upon, and he turns his head, his features almost entirely visible in the pale lamplight as his gaze intersects that of the smiling woman. "You think then that the veil between the world of men and the halls of the dead is thick and impenetrable, and not not indeed a thin veneer that may be crossed?"

"I do not know," Farielle answers. "But if men do not listen to prayers while they are yet living, why would they hear them when they are dead? Nor will any bring them back again to us." There is a curious underlying harshness to her voice.

The harshness does not fall upon deaf ears, but Karasor's only reaction is a slight tilt of his head. "You are right in that, it will not bring them back to us."

He allows silence to hang in the air for a moment before continuing, looking out to the sky, "But that is not my intent. I wish to send them onward. And I believe that the inability to speak, in death, is what might open their ears."

Farielle is silent. "Send them where?" she asks finally. "The doom of men is unknown."

"You," The man says, moving nothing but his eyes back in the woman's direction, "Are a surprisingly dark Lady, Farielle." He comments. Is that a note of humor? It soon fades. "Unknown, indeed. That riddle is not my place to answer. I only wish to speed them on whatever journey."

In the darkness perhaps Farielle feels safer. For a brief moment, no more than a breath, something like pain, like grief, like wistfulness shows in her eyes. But being as it is dark, it is unlikely that any expression of hers can be seen. And after only that second of betrayal, she is in command of herself once more, though her voice is slightly quieter. "Yes," she says.

With a deadpan humor herself, she answers his first comment. "Only my hair."

A soft, deep chuckle rises from Karasor as he hears these words. For a brief moment, his presence is almost comfortable, relaxed, rather than strange and reserved. "Surely, you are first beloved by the people of this tower for your wit."

Another long moment of silence. Farielle turns, moving up to the window and looking out of it. "Perhaps," she says after a long time, her voice entirely neutral. The effort it has taken to keep it that way shows only in a certain stiff line of shoulder.

As strangely and briefly as Karasor's guarded demeanor has passed, so it returns. Lichen-grey eyes disappear again in the shadow is his scarf as he turns his head to a further angle in the dim light.

"Or, perhaps, it is something else?"

There is a slight movement as Farielle glances towards him, then returns to watching out the window. "And what do you think that might be?" she parries.

"That was my question to you." Comes his answer, as sharp and expectant as hers is untrusting. The lamp flickers for a moment, but does not extinguish.

There is no movement at all from the slight, still figure. "Or perhaps I am not loved?"

"No whisper of ill feelings have passed my ears." Karasor's weathered hands move, slowly, to meet before him. The fingers drum silently together. "Or perhaps it is you, who does not love?"

"Lack of ill-feeling surely is not the same as love," Farielle answers. Then she lifts a finger to touch the window, before turning to face him, her face lit a little now by the flickering movement of the lamp light. Her eyes meet his, shadowed and still. "Does it matter?" There is a note of challenge in her voice. "What are my loves – or lack thereof – to you?"

Curious does Karasor seem to find this reaction, and as the woman turns, so does he tilt his features into the light again. "My Lady, there is not a thing in this world that is of no matter." He says, the words heavy. But his tone recedes as he continues, "But, whether your loves are my -business-, perhaps not."

Farielle cocks her head ever so slightly at the emphasis. "If not business," she asks, laying the same stress on the word as he has, "What then?"

"It is strange to me," The man says, carefully arranging his foreign features into a state of near expressionlessness. "That you would first assume yourself and your thoughts to be of no interest to any, than to question the man who would turn a deaf ear upon the concerns of a tower Lady."

"Perhaps," Farielle answers quietly, "I wish my thoughts and myself to be of no interest. The interest of the mighty is … perilous."

"Perhaps," her eyes are still steady on his face, "I wonder for the reason of such interest – from such an one as yourself. The singing bird may find itself caged, while the sparrow flies free."

"Interest of the mighty?" Again, a low chuckle comes from Karasor, but this one is not warm — rather, it is like a creeping ice on a window pane. "I would nearly be flattered that you assume such import to my questions."

Her gaze is met as steadily as it is given, for a moment, even unblinking. "Is it not fate, and swiftness from a clenching hand, that determines the freedom of a bird? Many sparrows still sing among the trees."

Farielle's head moves back and forth in a negative. "You misunderstand me," she says, her words plain for once. "I do not fear your interest – but those who may listen to your words. Nor are the mighty those whom you might think."

"The swift hand seeks first the bird that sings. Those who are silent most often go unseen."

"I do not misunderstand." He replies, calmly, smoothly. "Nor am I blind to the true nature of might."

Perhaps it is her plainness that now requires his, for his next inquiry is thus: "And which swift hand do you flee?"

"It is too late to flee that hand," Farielle answers. "Or did you think, like you, that I came here willingly? But now – " She tips her head in a throwing-away gesture. "He has failed in his desires and is no more. I flee no hand, but hide in the bushes to remain unseen, lest any try to hinder me in my purpose." She is very still, poised and waiting for his response.

"Willingly, like me?" A strange series of expressions play themselves out across Karasor's features following this comment — first, a mild surprise; then, a wanness, and this swiftly followed by a hardening, and a coldness.

But they finally settle back into a calm, the smooth surface of the seas following a storm. "Yes. Well, far be it from myself to hinder your purpose." He says, and turning back into the shadows, only a soft shuffle can be heard as he heads for the door.

Farielle watches him go, a tiny frown mark showing between her eyebrows – swiftly banished. Then she turns back to the window and composes herself in meditation.


	2. In Confidence

**Author's Note: Please Read our Author Profile! This is a work of Role-Play collaberation, and there is a lot of story context outside of these chapters. :) If you'd like to participate, you can connect with us at using the link provided in the profile.**

_March 7, 3019_

_Myl Bridge_

_The street arches gently skyward, becoming a bridge – but not over any aquaduct or river. Instead, it is a bridge over the street below: Rath Geil – the Street of the Star. Here and there, a tree's top branches shade the bridge; and windows in the upper floors of some of the taller buildings overlook the gap from street to wall. Stairs lead down from the north side of the street._

* * *

Evening draws to a close and the grey of twilight has begun to settle in, the pale silouhette of the moon hanging high in the sky. For the most part, the traffic on the street is scarce, and at the crest where the bridge arches over the Street below, is empty all but for one form — Karasor, standing at the rail, hands folded behind him, and watching the traffic below.

Farielle is coming home late tonight; and somewhat the long way around, it seems, having come via the bazaar instead of taking the direct route to Seaward. She is alone save for the ever-present guards, and is walking – and looking up at the sky – the moon – as she does so. Thus her path wavers ever so slightly though the two guards who flank her keep her more or less straight. They draw near to where Karasor stands.

The approaching shadow is met with a turning of the man's head, his attenton turned from the street, and offers a nod to the passing woman — which might go undetected, were it not for the smooth tones of the voice that accompanies it: "I trust you are headed back at this hour, my Lady?"

Farielle starts at the voice and looks away from the moon and stars, her eyes dazzled – it takes a moment to find who is speaking. The guards automatically react with hands to weapons – but then relax. They recognize Karasor more swiftly than Farielle does, nodding to him.

"Yes," Farielle answers. "I am."

"Perhaps I might walk with you." Surely it is a question. Eyes move to regard to two guards that follow close behind for a swift moment, but no other heed is paid to them before he returns an expectant gaze to Farielle.

A pause. "If you wish," comes the answer in the quiet street. Silently, the guards rearrange themselves, walking a little farther from their lady – giving her at least the illusion of privacy.

He doesn't answer, merely falls along in line beside the lady, his gait silent and his eyes fixed on the path that they cut across the bridge. But when he does speak, it is not with undue quietness. "There has been more trouble afoot in the streets as of late." He comments. "Can you not have your dresses delivered?"

Farielle stiffens, her head coming up. "I will not allow those … those /people/ to drive me from the streets, to lock myself up like some frightened child!" She stalks on a few paces in silence, then relents slightly. "I have taken greater care. Some days, if it is particularly bad, I do not go out. But tonight – it was necessary. And – " She waves a hand. "You see, the streets are quiet."

"Perhaps children are right to be frightened." He pauses, "Though, not all are, it seems." He doesn't adjust his pace as she rushes forward, but catches up at she finally relents, a shrug in one shoulder. "What compelled your business tonight?"

"Not all are," Farielle repeats, slowly. "No… I wonder why that is." She glances over at him, her face veiled and her eyes shadowed and dark in the faint moonlight. There are no streetlights, but it is not yet full dark, and the way ahead is easily seen. "Were you?"

Her glance is met with his gaze, eyes catching the light beneath his customary dark shroud for a moment. "I also wonder." He states simply. As for her inquiry? He inclines his head, and his brows move ever-so-slightly, but his tone does not waver. "Frightened? No." It grows into a frown, and he looks ahead. "Not yet."

This answer changes the quality of the silence slightly. At last, Farielle asks, "Do you expect to be?"

While his pace does not falter, a keen eye might discern a slightly taken aback expression on Karasor's shadowy features. One glance is sent to the left, and another to the right, without turning his head 'ere he answers. "It would be folly to not anticipate a storm where there hang clouds."

"Clouds," Farielle agrees. And wryly, "And lightning… I have heard things. Rumors."

"And wind." He adds, with a touch of dry humor which quickly fades away. "Rumors?"

"That those with – paler skin will not be safe," Farielle says very quietly.

"I think that is fairly evident." He replies, his tone lowering to match hers. "I have seen clergy walking the streets, and leaving a wake of misery. It is a matter of time." If he seems to say that a lot, her certainly doesn't seem to realize it. "What will you do?"

Farielle is silent. She glances to the left, perhaps judging how far the guards are. There is no one else visible on the streets. Then a look up at his face. Carefully, softly, she says, "I have thought – it may be good to …. visit friends outside the city." A few paces in quietness. "Yourself?"

Karasor seems to consider her words very carefully — else maybe he did not hear them at all, so long is his silence? But no, he turns to look finally upon the Girithlin woman, and a coldness is upon his features. "I have no friends outside the city." He says, as if that were a sufficient answer.

"Shall you stay then, and brave the storm? I think it will be a great one – even the most seaworthy vessels may sink." As if in response to their words, clouds have begun to build up in the west, and the moon seems now to sail through a misty veil.

There is a strange and unnerving candor to the low words that Karasor finally offers in reply. "I do not know." He looks upon the moon as it wades through a curtain of mist. "Perhaps," He continues, regaining his usual tone, "It is that vessels may sink, and dinghys may be cast about, but float."

Candor is met with candor. "I know not," Farielle says, no more than a murmur, "How we shall go, nor when. But perhaps there would be room for another… " She leaves the offer hanging in the air.

And so does Karasor. Leave it hanging, that is. He falls silent entirely, and this condition endures for the remainder of their journey down the street towards the Tower, feet falling in measure paces and eyes fixed straight ahead.


	3. Buying a Slave Boy

**Author's Note: Please Read our Author Profile! This is a work of Role-Play collaberation, and there is a lot of story context outside of these chapters. :) If you'd like to participate, you can connect with us at using the link provided in the profile.**

_March 9, 3019_

_Angrad Square_

_The Street of the Stars widens out into a square that has been turned into a tent, or so it seems. Many pieces of cloth of varying colors are attached to slender poles covering nearly the entire bazaar, and shops of every sort fill the area. Some are tents, with the sides rolled up during the day and let down at night; some are more permanent buildings; some are nothing more than a few boxes and a rug laid out on the pavement to be gathered up and taken away at the end of the day. Lamps hang from some of the poles, so that the serious business of buying and selling need not stop only because dusk has fallen._

_Several shops here offer weapons for sale. One carries more common items; daggers, table-knives, even a few short bows. Another has an inventory of more exotic weapons: long half-swords with rippled steel; wide-bladed weapons with jagged teeth; long, slender desert spears. There are money-changers, herb sellers, booths filled with spices and vegetables from the far south. A gem cutter hangs jewelry in a ray of sunlight next to a woman selling hats and bolts of silk. Almost anything a person can conceive of can be found here – or if not, people who can be commissioned to acquire it – and the babble of conversation goes on far into the night. It is really only quiet in the very early mornings._

* * *

Heavy cloud cover has rolled into the bay this day, and not a peep of sun has been since. Moisture hangs in the air, but does not fall. What few people still linger in the dreariness of the Market are cloaked against the weather, and Karasor is among them.

As ever, he stands off to one side, and is very still. His attention seems to be focused on a parade of slaves, young and old, are being brought forth to the stand, accounted, and sold off — but he makes no indication of an intent to participate.

Nearby, the Lady Farielle is looking through the wares of a honey-seller. With her is one of her maids, quite an older woman who looks rather stout as well. And flanking them are two guards in Seaward Tower colors. Farielle refuses to look towards the slave auction – though it is so near, she can't help but hear what happens.

Among the group of slaves is a young boy dressed in what must have once been fairly nice clothes that are now worn, scarggly, and decidedly dirty. He can't be anymore than 8 or 9 years in age. There's an errant smudge of black dirt along his nose, and sharp blue eyes of a bright blue hue flash defiantly despite the chains on his slender wrists. This black hair is scruffy and touseled, left uncut for more than the pan of a few weeks, and the slave traders, strangely, keep some distance from the scrawny child.

Karasor's observance of the passage of slaves is not, perhaps as attentive as it should be. His gaze wanders, if his feet do not, and in such a path falls upon the Lady Farielle, where it pauses. He inclines his head in her direction, as if seeking to call her attention through sheer force of silent will alone.

A rough hand handles the dark-haired boy up on the stand, and the slave-master shouts, "No lies, this one is trouble and then some! A fair, fair price on his measly little head."

Perhaps it is the weight of the man's gaze, for Farielle – as she concludes her bargain, and a boy is told off from the shop to take the honey she has purchased to the Tower – glances up and looks towards the slave marts – towards Karasor. Her eyes find him and she frowns and looks away, unwillingly, unable to stop herself, towards the boy. And her gaze freezes there.

The boy clearly does not appreciate being manhandled by the slave traders, and with a flash of fire in his eyes, he uses the one weapon available to him to let the man pushing him up on the stand exactly what he thinks about this. There's a flash of startling blue eyes and then white teeth as the child twists and bites down hard on the forearm of the man unfortunate enough to have received this particular task.

Karasor's focus follows that of the Lady, it finds its way back to the slave-sale at hand. He squints, and blinks, and squints again at the sight before his still demeanor is overtaken. If Farielle's gaze is frozen, then his is aflame as it lights upon the boy, and his eyes grow wide.

"Argh!" The Master snarls as the boy bites into him, and though he does not loosen his grip of the child, spits down at him like a dog. "Who is going to take -you- on with a bite like that, hm, boy?"

Yet Karasor's cool voice sounds loudly, and his steps toward the stand carry an uncharacteristic haste. "The price. What is it." More a statement than a question, really.

Unconsciously, Farielle takes a step forward, then she stops and turns, speaking urgently to one of the guardsmen, who may try to argue but is over-born at the last, and steps forward, starting to ask as well what Karasor beats him to.

The kid clamps down hard until he at least draws blood, and only when the man pulls his arm away with a yank does the boy finally releases his bite. Shaking too long hair out of his eyes, Celegnith glares at the Master, planting two dirty, bare feet firmly as he looks over the crowd with a thin of a blood stained smile on his childlike face.

"Two silver," The Master answers, his face the very picture of disdain as the boy goes so far as to draw the blood of his captor.

Karasor's hand is already in his moneypouch. "Done." He replies, his gaze not wavering from the strange, blood-stained face of the child.

But upon seeing the approach of Farielle's guard, and not about to pass up an opportunity, the Master holds up a hand. "Now, that is, 'less there's a better offer to be had?"

"Three," says the guardsman swiftly, not looking back to his mistress.

Sucking on his teeth, the young boy jerks experimentally at the chain on his wrist, an action he seems to have done often by the marks on his wrists, and his bright blue eyes flicker between Karasor and the Guardsman, little nose wrinkling as he gives a sniff.

"Four." Karasor answers swiftly, and only removes his eyes from the boy to look upon the guard that challenges his purchase. On his face, not so shadowed on a cloudy day as this, a frown furrows.

The Master only raises a pleased an expectant brow back to Farielle's guard.

Tariq frowns as well, but says with the air of a man prepared to go on all day if need be, "Five." He glances back over his shoulder at Farielle, who nods urgently, then returns his attention to the auction.

Glancing between the two bidders again, Celegnith studies each with a child-like intelligence and shoots the Master a look as he sticks out his lower lip in a frown. Clearly the child things the man is far too pleased.

"Six." Karasor's offer is swift behind, his glare upon the guard one of equal endurance. Yet, as his weathered hand emerges with coins from its rummaging in his satchel, there are only four to be seen in the palm.

A curse of a strange tongue comes low from his lips, but he soon quiets himself, and asks of the guard in an even tone, "May I not speak with the Lady on this matter?"

The Master looks back at the boy with distaste, letting the men work out their pricing for the moment. To the boy, he says, "Now, you'd best be please with your bit of luck too. You ought to be in the lower decks of a dark vessel, otherwise."

Tariq, after a glance at the Master assures him there are no other buyers and the boy is not likely to vanish, nods. "Speak with her, if you wish. I doubt she'll change her mind." He sounds resigned; perhaps he has known other instances of Farielle's obdurate refusal to change her mind.

His voice is a high pitched and a touch melodic like that of a choir boy, but his bright eyes flash and his teeth clench as hes stares down the Master, "Definitely no luck brought me here, mister." It would be cute if his young eyes weren't so serious and didn't hold some shadow in their blue depths.

Tariq's assurance of Farielle's unwavering pursuit causes a change in Karasor's demeanor then: what was a strong and rushed purchase becomes a slow and calculated thoughtfulness as he merely glances at the woman again before turning back to her guard beside him. "Surely, you know her best." Is all he says, for the moment.

The Master seems please enough with this turn of events. "Oh, it's luck and a half for the soft heart of the Lady to want your head, little one." He says, and motions for the lad to be dragged to the front of the stand, where he is accesible to Tariq. "Five silver from you, then."

Tariq shrugs. "As you will," he says, and turns to count the money out for the Master, and then to take hold of the back of the boy's neck.

Frowning doubtfully at the Master, Celegnith rolls his lower lip up, a distrustful glance given Tariq as he looks the man over with his first few steps foward, but then a shove from behind and he stumbles forward the last few steps only to find a hand firmly on the back of his neck a moment later. Twisting as if he might bite should he get the opportunity, the child finds that the man's at least grabbed him in such a way to prevent immediate gnawing.

It's with a sigh and a shuffle of his bare feet that the young boy walks forward, a mumbled comment of, "Lucky, he says."

"Let me look at him," Farielle orders – in Haradaic. Her own face is loosely veiled, with only her eyes visible. Perhaps the child will notice that they are grey and not black, and that in that grey is a hint of blue; and what skin can be seen is very pale.

Tariq obediently applies pressure to turn the boy's face so she can see it.

As the boy is brought forward and handed into the care of Tariq, borne forth towards the Girithlin lady, Karasor is a statue. His eyes follow after the young form like a hawk, but his frown fades to a stony stoicism as the boy passes away.

With a stiffness and difficulty of one rising from a long sit, he tears his eyes and himself from the scene before him, his cloak floating is his wake as he departs from the market.

The boy is spirited, that much is certain, but the pressure on the child's head is finally enough to make the boy look up at Farielle. Eyes that looked perfectly blue from a distance are rimmed with a steel grey that melds qith the blue, and his lips draw together in a thin line as he presses his lips together in and sets his chin in a brave way.

This brave expression slips by shades towards curiosity as Celegnith studies the woman from under his shaggy black hair, eyes narrowing to a squint as he looks her over. Finally he says in his high child-like voice, in well spoken Westron, "Err… Hello." That small hesitation visible in a mouth that opens but doesn't know what to say immediately as he offers the greeting almost experimentally.

"What is your name, child?" Farielle asks, switching to westron. "Who is your family?" Her hands are gripped tightly together beneath the cape-like robe of light silk, but there is no other visible sign of agitation – she has herself well under control once more. Beside her, Leena sniffs disapprovingly and says, in Haradaic, "Filthy little monster. Don't get too near him, my lady, he's likely to have some dreadful disease or other."

Sliding forward a step so he can stand to his full, albeit somewhat dimnutivie height, the boy shakes his black hair back from his eyes as he looks up at Farielle with brows drawn sharply together. A glance is given the guardsman before the child rocks back on his heels in a gesture of unease. "My name is Celegnith." He replies with a frown for Leena and a sniff that scrunches up his little nose before his gaze shifts back up to the veiled woman. "And, begging your pardon," the boy says with a small bow of his head, "But I do not remember." Jerking his head back at the slave master, the kid's stunning eyes flash with fire as he adds, "Since some of them hit me on the head, things are fuzzy."

Farielle shakes her head gently at Leena. "It's hardly his fault." Looking back to the boy, she half-reaches out a hand towards him, as if to take one of his, then draws it back at Tariq's warning grunt. "Celegnith," she repeats.

"Tariq, take him to the smithy and have the chains taken off. Then bathe him and feed him … I suppose you are hungry?" she switches from haradaic to westron at the last question. Back to Tariq, but still in westron now, "Then bring him to my rooms." She turns away, though her eyes linger on the child, then stops. "Oh. He will need some clothes as well. Buy whatever he needs – have you enough?"

The guardsman nods, his hand still gripping the boy tightly enough that he won't wriggle loose or be able to bite. "Plenty, my lady."

Steely blue eyes lighting up at the prospect of food, the little fellow actually grins a bit at Farielle, and his nose scrunches up with a sniff, "Yes, ma'am. I have not had a good meal in awhile now…" He tilts his head, peeking up at Tariq with a considering gaze and a small frown before he looks down at his own clothes. The kid gives a mirthless laugh at the state of his once good clothes. "Hey – what else did she say?" With an inquisitive tilt of his head, that hints that Tariq might get asked more questions than he ever wanted to answer.

Instead of answering, Tariq walks away – the boy perforce, must come with him or let his head be detached from his body. After a few steps, the guardsman answers, "We are going to the blacksmith, and then to the baths, and then food and …" His voice fades into the raucous noises of the marketplace, and Farielle turns towards Seaward Tower, Ridwan being extra vigilant now.


	4. Eavesdropping

**Author's Note: Please Read our Author Profile! This is a work of Role-Play collaberation, and there is a lot of story context outside of these chapters. :) If you'd like to participate, you can connect with us at using the link provided in the profile.**

_March 21, 3019_

_Library_

_Many tomes and scrolls, mostly old but a few of more recent vintage, prominently line the walls of this eastern chamber, filling shelves that are seven feet high. Yet, equally important is the desk beneath the eastern window, and a small arrangement of couches and footstools; here the Lord receives more intimate guests than in the vast hall below. A discrete door leads to a small study._

_Following the gentle curve of the wall are the windows, six in all from the northeast to the southeast. During the long mornings, the sun makes this the brightest chamber in the Tower, and dust motes from the ancient tomes dance in the sunlight. But the wonders of this room can barely compete with the breathtaking view of Umbar provided by the windows._

* * *

Rain. The sound of its constant washing against the panes of the windows is nearly a din in this otherwise silent room. Little light is to be found here as well, with the sky blanketed in grey, and few lanterns allowed in a room filled with flammable texts.

Near ones of these windows, working with a squint as such conditions require, Karasor is seated at a small desk. Even indoor, his scarved head is bent over a page, taking in what is written there — and unlooked at, his right hand moves on a blank one beside it, making scribbling of ink from a pen in its wake.

Silent in the background, behind some shelves stuffed full of books, Farielle has been sitting for some time. Before Karasor came into the room, even – with a book open on her lap that she isn't looking at – her gaze is directed out the window, but she doesn't see even that. She is lost in some inner world of her own, and the scratching of a pen on paper barely makes a dint in her thoughts.

Trapped inside thanks to the rain, Celegnith finds himself wandering the hallways after his chores have been completed. His little scruffy head is the first part of him that pops into the library, and with a look behind him he creeps into the otherwise quiet room gently closing the door behind him with only the smallest sound to account for it.

Then he's quietly moving through the stacks of papers, a hand reaching up to brush aside too long hair as his eyes flicker along the shelves. A small hand reaches out to tug at a particularly large tome, and it's with a grunt that Celegnith pulls it free, the heavy tome resting in his hands as he drags it over to an empty spot.

Even the smallest of sounds is enough to make the scratching of Karasor's pen pause mid-sentence. First, the man's gaze rises towards Celegnith, and then his head follows suit.

Carefully, he blots the pen upon a small linen before setting it down to the table, and with that same hand, motions toward the boy. His fingers wave inward, indicating a space at the desk beside him. An invitation, perhaps.

Adjusting his steps with the heavy book, Celegnith breathes a sigh of relief when he plops the huge thing down atop the offered spot. "That one was heavier than it looked." By all appearances it appears to be some sort of history book that the child has selected, but he suddenly gives Serven a big grin as he says, "How are you today, sir?"

A slow, single nod tips Karasor's head to greet the boy's arrival. But, his questions? Not only does the man not seem to heed them, but he moves on swiftly to one of his own:

"What is your name, lad?"

Staring at the man for a moment, the boy brushes shaggy black hair out of his eyes again and tips his head, perhaps a bit surprised that the man hasn't simply answered his nice little question. The smile disappears, nearly as quickly as it came, and a serious little frown replaces it even as the child says, "My name's Celegnith."

A small breath seems almost to rush from Karasor's lungs beyond his otherwise tightly wound and intentional will of physical presence. Yet, as the child's smile slips away, so does the man indulge on of his former comments, a insgle finger pointing towards the heavy tome he had selected.

"And you are fond of tales of yore?"

The sound of voices, low and like the background drum of rain go on for some time before Farielle becomes aware of them. She turns her head to listen.

"I like history." Celegnith replies as he climbs into the chair and gives a little huff to accompany his plopping down. The child stares at the large book for a long moment before he turns to look up at Karasor, "And I almost miss reading and writing all the time. Never thought I would say that." Giving a sniff the child give some hint of a grumble in his next words, "Can't be helped, I guess." Still he looks up with that smile on his face once more as he points at the man's own work, "Do you like books too?"

"Yes," Karasor replies in a low tone, some small curl of a smile slipping onto one edge of his mouth. "Yes, I like books too."

Careful fingers pick up the pen he had set aside, dip it into the well of ink, and then extend it towards the boy. "May I see a sample of your pen-hand?" He flips the page he had been working on to a blank side, and slides this across the desk toward the boy.

Celegnith's voice is recognized first, and Farielle frowns, making a movement as if she will get up. But Karasor doesn't sound annoyed or bothered… she settles back, her gaze drifting towards the window once more.

Accepting the pen with a suddenly bright grin, the child seems almost genuinely pleased to touch the pen, and he looks at it with a smile that softens into a comfortable, calm happiness as he first adjusts his posture and then begins to write with trained, graceful strokes that would make any scribe pleased. And what does the child choose to write? A short bit of classic poetry, and it's with a final flourish of his pen that Celegnith looks at Karasor with a little laugh. "Maybe not my best, but there you go!"

There is a small incline to Karasor's brows as he looks down upon the poetry that the child writes. "You must have had a very fine teacher," he comments.

But he takes the pen back for a moment. "However, the tail on your 'calma' is a bit excessive." Smooth strokes form some words on the page below those that Celegnith had written. "It should be a mere dab. Do you see?"

As his eyes rise back to the boy, they are expectant. "Try again." He extends the pen once more.

"Oh, alright…" Celegnith says aloud, but when he actually looks down at the page, the child blinks and looks momentarily confused. Still, the child takes the pen, and after shooting Karasor a curious little tilt of his head, tucks in and write what seems to be several sentences. Crossing off some letter in the last word, he looks up again with a sudden grin as he offers the pen back to Karsor, "There – how's that?"

Karasor, however, does not at all look pleased with the second sample that the boy has given. Indeed, it's very reading draws a deep frown to his features. But his words, perhaps, are on contrast to this. "Much better. Also, your 'halla' is too long. It will be mistaken for a carrier.

Plucking the pen, he writes a short sentence again, and taps the page as he finishes. His tone changes then, as does his topic: "Do you have much time of your own at the end of the day to practice? What are your duties, here in the tower?"

Looking down at the page in front of him, Celegnith tips his head as he reads the page, and he looks up at Karasor, back at the paper, and then back up at the man as if he's been presented with a puzzle. Still the child grins and then gives a small nod, "Alright. I'll definitely remember that, sir."

Rocking back on the chair, the child considers the question before replying, "Beyond reporting to the Lady, I have me evenings free to do with what I wish, as long as I don't get in trouble. I've been trying to make some friends.." Scratching his head he adds, "But that's not always easy. Still, learning a few words of Haradric as I can figure them out. My duties are in the kitchen. Pretty much I do whatever the head cook needs. Sometimes it's just sitting at the fire and turning whatever they're cooking for hours on end." Rubbing his arm with a small, child-like grimace, the boy adds, "But I never complain, and I've been trying to learn as much as I can about everything."

Karasor nods once, and takes the page they had been writing upon into his hands, where it is folded neatly into a square and tucked into his robes somewhere near the breast.

"Perhaps the Lady will permit you to take some lessons, if you ask. I might help you improve your Haradaic, so that you might effectively complain, if you have need." His gaze upon Celegnith is kind, and almost close to warm. Almost.

Rocking a bit in his chair, the boy actually frowns as he consider's Karasor's words. "Maybe I should. I don't want to ask too much. I want to make sure she likes me."

The child seems almost nervous for a moment as he says more softly, "If she ever decided she didn't like me or left me…. that would be bad. And she makes this face whenever she's sad." Celegnith looks up as he makes an impersonation of the Lady's facial expression. "My mom made that face a lot right before she died… You don't think she's ill do you?"

Karasor's weathered hand extends, settling upon the boy's shoulder in a firm, but surely intended to be comforting, grasp. His eyes fix upon those of the boy, and do not waver. "Celegnith, I believe there is little you might do that would cause the Lady to look unkindly upon you."

Yet, suddenly, all trace of expression is banished from his face. His hand twitches, ever so slightly. "You say that your mother is dead?"

When the child looks up to meet the man's eyes, quiet worry swims in those blue-grey depths despite the assurance, but Celegnith gives a little nod in spite of briefly betrayed hint of fear and worry, and he replies with a small nod, "Yes. Sometimes I have trouble remembering her, but the Lady actually reminds me of her a lot. That's why I…." The little boy frowns deeply, and then shrugs, as a deep sadness slides across his face and he sighs, "As long as I'm happy she should be fine."

Hidden, half-listening, half-drifting, Farielle comes fully awake at these words. And she doesn't fall back into her dream world, but strains alert to hear every thing that is said.

Even though there is no mirth or smile to be beheld on Karasor's features or in his tone, he continues to stare straight into Celegnith's worried eyes, and he squeezes the shoulder briefly. "The weight of Farielle's sorrows are not for your shoulders to bear." He says, and then lapses into a brief silence.

"I know, but…. Maybe if I had been happier with my mom she would have been happier, and she might have then gotten better. So if Lady Farielle can be happier…." Celegnith explains with wide eyes and little hand gestures as he tries to express his thoughts. Then with a sigh the kid scratches his nose as he looks up at Karasor, "You're a bit strange, sir, but thanks for talking with me."

An odd expression crosses the face of the woman listening, unguarded for once, here where none can see. She puts a hand to her mouth, then drops it gently, noiselessly, into her lap and looks down, watching the fingers curl together.

The man tilts his head then in such a way that the scarf casts long shadows over his face, though one might still glimpse the edges of his lips pressing together in a hard line. "She was a sad woman, then, your mother?"

But a brief gleam shows that his eyes still watch the boy's gestures carefully, and with one last pat, his hand falls away from Celegnith's shoulder then. "Strange?" It is more a comment than a question, and is followed by a rare, soft chuckle. "Perhaps I am 'a bit strange'."

He sobers quickly. "But you may always speak to me."

"Yes. Mother was always very sad. Well, except when she was playing her harp." Smiling rather happily the child kicks his feet back and forth as he says, "Then she'd have this pretty smile and would be so beautiful."

For a moment the boy seems preoccupied with this memory. With a blink and a little giggle at the man's responses to being called strange, Celegnith seems to rejoin the present as he nods his head a couple times and he chimes brightly, "Alright, sir!"

"The harp is a very fine instrument." Karasor comments in an even tone, gazing quizzically upon Celegnith's suddenly smiling features. "Have you been taught any of the Lays as well?"

He pauses, adding, "You may call me Karasor, Celegnith."

Harp. Farielle's fingers, in her lap, move as if playing an arpeggio, rippling like silk or like a waterfall. As if suddenly cramped, she shifts – the chair creaks faintly.

"Karasor." Celegnith carefully pronounces the man's name once slowly and then he says it once again, faster this time. "Ahh, no. I never have had any real training in playing." He shakes his head and sighs then, "But I love listening to it. The sound always makes me feel better."

Is it the faint creaking of Farielle's chair, or is it merely the natural course of things that brings Karasor to draw an end to his conversation with the boy? "Perhaps you shall find some music soon."

He nods towards the window. "But, perhaps it is time you found your supper, now."

And perhaps that is relief mingled with disappointment that passes over Farielle's face…

"Ahh, yeah…." Celegnith seems to remember food with a surprised blink once it's mentioned, his stomach responding with a protesting noise at just this mere verbal mention of supper. Putting his hand on his tummy, the kid's nose scrunches up and he wriggles out of the chair. "You are right." Giving the man a polite bow the young boy adds, "Thank you, Karasor. I'll talk to you later, I guess!"

Karasor tips in a slow bow to answer the boy's. "A fine evening to you, Celegnith." He looks up, adding, "Yes, you will." He turns back to his book then, fingers tracing the lines of text as he reads.

Farielle waits until by the sounds, the child is gone; and then a few minutes longer. Then, quietly but without undue stealthiness, she rises and moves along the bookshelves towards the door. At some point, she will have to come out into the open, where Karasor can see her, but this doesn't seem to bother her…

Karasor does not show any disturbance or sign of being aware of the Lady's passing as she moves across the room — That is, until she comes to the door.

"A fine evening to you as well, Lady." He says, not even looking up from his work.

"And to you," Farielle answers, half-turning, with her hand on the door. "I hope the child did not bother you."

"On the contrary." Is all he says, drawing up a clean sheet of blank paper, and beginning to scratch upon it with his pen anew.

"That is good." Farielle turns back, quietly going out of the door.


	5. In the Well

_**Author's Note: Please Read our Author Profile! This is a work of Role-Play collaberation, and there is a lot of story context outside of these chapters. :) If you'd like to participate, you can connect with us at using the link provided in the profile.**_

_May 5, 3019_

_Well_

_Multiple branching stairways lead up and down the walls of this giant well. Every so often, a walkway has been built around the square perimeter – at whatever level the water may be, it will never be inaccessible. There are beautiful and intricate carvings in the walls themselves – of strange flying beasts, of camels, of trumpeting mumakil and desert morning glory. _

* * *

Fingers trace rough stone, following a design carved into the rock unknown hundreds (or thousands) of years before. "I don't know what this one is," Farielle says, looking down at the small boy who accompanies her. "It looks a little like a cat, but I've never heard of a cat with wings." She is veiled, and at least two guards accompany them, as well as a maid.

Standing at Farielle's arm, a little boy of no more than nine or so years runs his hands through his fluffy, disorderly hair until it sticks up in a shockingly messy fashion, even as he leans forward and studies the design with wide, blue-grey eyes. The child wears a slave collar about his neck, an object that his flighty hands also play with on occasion. Tracing what might be the wings, Celegnith wonders aloud to the veiled Lady at his side, "Maybe its an animal that's no longer alive?"

Pranay stands off to the side of the well, with arms crossed and her hip jutting out to one side. This shifts the gown falling over her hips to reveal more of the dark flesh than usually exposed. She leans up against the wall with a heavy shoulder. Painted lips curl up in a smile and dark eyes play over the pair glimpsing into the well. Her black eyes pierce into the pair, the boy specifically. She leaves her perch against the wall and sidles over to the pair with a significant sway of her hips, one foot delicately placed in front of the other. She comes up behind the pair and a long nail of an even longer, delicate finger comes up to grace itself just below the collar of his neck. Her voice is drips with a venomous tone sweetened by the twinge of honey, "I'd be careful if I were you. It'd be awful easy for you to…" She presses her shin just behind the boy's knee in an effort to trigger the reflex that would make him buckle, "…slip." She steps off to the side and presses both hands against the opening the well. A vicious grin plays on her features as she glances up at the woman beside the boy before glancing into the depth of the well. She extends her neck and then positions her head so that the hair falls across her face, shadowing her features. A blink of the eyes and the a piercing gaze is fixed upon the woman, "My, my. What have we here?"

"Or from very far away," Farielle muses. "Or…" She glances down and her eyes crinkle in a smile. "Possibly it existed only in the mind of its creator. What do you think…" The lady is moving towards the next carving when both her guards move forward, protectively at the Pranay's approach.

Tariq has one hand on his sword, the other drops to Celegnith's shoulder, holding him up should he start to fall. Farielle's blue-grey eyes – the only visible portion of her face – harden and narrow, but she says, perfectly politely and in fluent Haradaic, in which there is only the faintest accent, "I am Lady Farielle anAlkhaszor, of Seaward Tower. And you are?"

"I…" The little boy begins to reply in Westron to the Lady, but he actually winces at the pressure sgainst his knee by the approach of the frightening woman. The look the child gives Tariq is an appreciative one, and he reaches up one small, brown hanad to hold on to Farielle's skirt. The skin you can see is as dark as any Hardric's, but his blue grey eyes speak of lineage far beyond these borders, and his gaze flickers between Farielle and this darkly clad woman as he now grows slient and watches.

The hard gaze of the woman cuts from the woman to the guard who places his hand on the boy's shoulder. Pranay's gaze cuts over him measure him from head to toe, ere she smirks, "Don't worry, guard dog." She offers a smile to the boy, an act that seems foreign on her dark features. She purses her lips into a pouty expression and speaks as if she might a small child, "I wouldn't hurt the little one."

She reaches out to run a nail down his cheek. The blink and the hard gaze are forced on to the guard as she pulls her hand back rubbing her thumb and forefinger together. She lefts her head and flips her hair over a bare shoulder before rolling it lazily, "Well, not like that anyways." She leans back letting her hair dangle over the opening of the well. She lulls her head to one side and glint plays in the depths of her irises as she drawls out the words, "Mmm, no. Torture's half the fun…" She pauses for but a moment before replying, "My name is Pranay, High Priestess of The Eye." Her eyes flicker as the hand reaches up to grasp at the woman's skirt. She leans forward and rest an elbow on her knee. In the same degrading voice she had used previously, "Are we… scared?"

Both guards are focused on the priestess – though this doesn't stop them from glancing around regularly – and their expressionless, professional faces might be carved from stone. Neither one makes any move nor response, but they are tensed and ready.

Farielle stands perfectly still, slender and straight, looking down disdainfully at Pranay. "Certainly not," she says.

His grey blue eyes flicker from his dark skinned face as he first looks up at Farielle and then back to the priestess as words fly in Haradric. Celegnith watches the exchange between the women with an expression that's both cautious and curious, but his little hand doesn't ever release its grasp on the Lady's skirt. When Pranay address him, he frowns, but never does the child lift his voice to answer her.

Pranay's position does not change but her gaze does flint upward with a hard blink as the Farielle answers the question directed at the child. She clears her throat and leans backwards giving the guard a measured look. She turns back to the child and cocks her head. She sucks on her teeth for a moment, carefully running her tongue over them, before she finally lets a sound pass from her lips, "Tsk, it's a pity, really. He looks to be one of high intelligence but obviously his communication skills are lacking. It must be search a burden for you to be his mouthpiece." She smiles a rigid smile in the boy's direction, "Don't worry, my child. With the collar, they'll only expect you to bark."

Something glints in Farielle's eyes, and she says silkily, "It is sad thing, indeed. I had high hopes for him but – " She shrugs languidly. "I wonder if his wits are addled." She doesn't look down, nor does she move to twitch her skirt from Celegnith's hold.

By the child's yet calm and curious expression, it may be apparent that perhaps the words being spoken hold no real meaning for him. There's a few that seem to catch his ear, as if those might make sense to him, but his expression is far too peaceful for him to be truly understand what either of the adults are actually saying. Thse words, after all, would at least make someone who understands them feel some emotion such as shame or anger.

"Ah, hopefully you are right. It would be dreadful to have to dispose of him," Pranay's gaze bounces between the woman and the boy momentarily. A stray look comes to her eyes and lingers there for a moment. Her eyes narrow as if contemplating something before she grins. She turns her dark gaze on the boy and looks him over, "He seems to have no qualms with this dilemma himself, however."

"He is quite pretty," Farielle answers, looking down at the child now, with an air of consideration. "I think I shall keep him, if only for that. Perhaps… as a page boy."

Looking up at Farielle's words, Celegnith grins, apparently understanding something the woman's said in that last group of words. Whichever part it was, it seems to please the young boy greatly.

Pranay quirks a brow up in response to this. A sly smile tugs at the corner of her lips, "Pretty? So that's what you are using him for then, hmmm?" She smiles and turns to the boy, "Something he apparently seems to enjoy for the idiotic grin plastered on his face." She leans in to speak to the boy, "You must be one of the favored to be upheld as a page boy. Trusted enough to carry the secrets of a household yet your masters see no harm in sending you to deliver those to neither friend nor foe." She flints her gaze back up to the woman, "Which makes one wonder what the boy has done to have gained such love."

"Oh, he is not yet of an age to be trusted with any secrets." Farielle laughs lightly. "But he is quite decorative, I think. And besides," her smile, unseen behind the veil, but guessed at from the movement of the muscles by her eyes, widens. "It confuses people."

Tipping his head at the words obviously directed to him, Celegnith stares at Pranay with a strange confusion as he attempts to gain some woman from the Priestess's words, but most of what she says seems to go past him without gaining any real repsonse or understanding beyond him lowering his gaze when she leans closer to him.

Pranay herself is confused as she asked, "What do you mean?" She watches the confusion pass over the boy's features but does not say anything else to the boy. For the moment.

"Mean?" Farielle pats Celegnith's head with the tips of her fingers. "Don't you think he is too much a child to be trusted with the secrets of the Tower? I am sure you would agree with me. But he is quite beautiful, and I shall keep him." Her voice is that of someone secretly amused, but her eyes are watchful.

The young boy grins brightly when Farielle pat's his head, the gesture seeming to mean more than whatever words are passing between the two women, and he leans his scruffy touseled mess of black hair against the Lady's side in a rather trusting manner.

The small group has been mostly alone in this part of the well, though others come and go in lower parts, drawing water. But now the sound of bare feet slapping on stone grows louder and a boy of 16 or so years of age, comes running lightly up to them. He is wearing only a slave-collar and a loincloth, and when he is a few feet away, he drops to his knees and looks up at Pranay adoringly.

Pranay shrugs, "Sometimes children are the best candidates for those types of jobs." She speaks the next words haughtily as if one was speaking about a foul creature rather than children, "Their../innocence/ is perfect for the duty. So trusting, loyal… naive." The boy just happens to punctuate this as he leans into the woman and this brings a smile to the woman's lips. "Yet, curious, mischevious." The Priestess brings a hand to her throat and runs her long finger nails across the delicate flesh where, if she were a slave, a collar may lie, "They /can/ be trusted with such information until a certain point but then one must tighten the leash and the collar and make sure that the slave does not believe himself better than his master. This desire must be subdued." She gives a wistful sigh and asks the woman, "Does your pretty have this desire?"

It is about that time that the sound echoing down through the well reaches Pranay's ears. Her eyes snap up at the sound and she whips around to see what has caused the noice. A vicious grin spreads across her features and her eyes cut to Farielle. She stands with a practiced grace and strides slowly over to Teenan with a sashay of her hips. "Well, now…" She glances over her shoulder, jutting out her hip, "This is the epitome of pretty." She gives the woman a wink before turning back to the boy. She traces a delicate finger up his arm and across his collarbone. The nail makes its way to his back, as she walks behind him, and her arms come to loop around his neck, "Isn't that right, my pet." She cuts her eyes up to the woman and boy with a venomous grin.

Teenan tips his head back to watch the priestess as she comes towards him, keeping it back as she walks behind him – his neck vulnerable and unprotected. He shivers a little at her touch, and answers with a curious blend of fervor and abasement, "You are always right, my lady. Always!"

And perhaps it is as well that Farielle's expression is safely hidden behind her veil. "He is very nice looking," she agrees. "I am sure that you … treasure him." Her hand remains on Celegnith's head, light, but warm and maybe comforting to the little boy.

His quiet grey-blue eyes seem to study the other slave, and the child's expression, while he still doesn't seem to really understand all the words being tossed about, can note the apperance of this slave and how Pranay acts around him. It brings a small frown to his features, and Farielle might notice the slight change in pressure as the boy shifts minutely closer to her.

"Of course I am," Pranay says with a soft chuckle. She runs her manicured nail across the boy's exposed jugular. Her gaze does not leave Farielle but as the woman speaks she rises, straightening her back, but keeps a hand rested firmly on the boy's shoulder. "Treasure, mmm. Yes, I suppose I do treasure him." She watches the boy standing next to the woman for a long moment, "Perhaps, you're little twerp will grow to be half of this little treasure of mine."

The absolute idolization in Teenan's face doesn't alter, nor does he move. If she wished, Pranay could slit his throat just now.

"Perhaps," Farielle says, neutrally. "We shall see. He has some growing to do yet."

The pressure of Farielle's hand is increased ever so slightly.

Indeed, the little fellow is scarcely four feet tall, and Celegnith is more adorable than he is handsome, though there is the promise of a future young man buried somewhere under that childish exterior that holds onto Farielle's skirt.

Pranay scoffs, "heh, one could only be so lucky. Teenan will do absolutely anything I ask. Wouldn't you, Teenan?" Without waiting for an answer, the corner of her lips are pulled up into a smile. Her hard gaze comes to rest on the boya cross from her, ere she sighs, "One day. One day we shall see."

"Yes, Mistress," Teenan whispers. "Anything." He watches her, never even looking towards Celegnith, Farielle and the Hassadite guardsmen.


	6. An Offer You Can't Refuse

_**Author's Note: Please Read our Author Profile! This is a work of Role-Play collaberation, and there is a lot of story context outside of these chapters. :) If you'd like to participate, you can connect with us at using the link provided in the profile.**_

_June 9, 3019_

_Palace_

_This building is very old; perhaps one of the oldest in the city. There are scenes graven into the marble walls, cunningly contrived so that their colors seem that of the stones themselves – scenes of Numenor of old, of the Ship-Kings meeting the lesser inhabitants of this land, of warriors and rulers, great musicians and poets. One wall has been paneled over with a golden wood – if there was ever an image in the stone behind it, it cannot be seen now. _

_Long hallways and wide lead from private apartments to public rooms; from libraries to bowers to solariums – for this was once the private residence of the king. Now it is used for the meetings of the Lords of Umbar and their dignitaries, and the private suites house embassages from other lands, should any arrive._

* * *

A gaggle of black-robed guards, some with scimitars at their waist, some with spears in their hands, moves slowly down a corridor. Near their center is one who looks like the rest, but whose obsidian-rimmed silver medallion is subtly different, bearing not just the Eye, but the Eye superimposed on Farside Tower. He is staring at the wall paneled with golden wood and taking short steps, pausing after each. One might almost say Askar is killing time, if Tower Lords ever had time to kill instead of enemies.

More likely he is waiting, though for what is not immediately apparent. His guards are looking in all directions so that he doesn't have to.

An inner door opens, some ways down one of the hallways, and several guards in Seaward's colors step out. Behind them comes a lady dressed in a gown of peacock blue. Here in the palace, she is unveiled, and her pale skin and grey eyes stand out vividly among the much darker ones around her. A step behind her is a woman who must certainly be her maid; she carries a bag and is shorter than her mistress. And last of all come several more of Seaward's guards. They walk down the hallway towards the main entrance. And though the door remains open, whoever Farielle met with remains inside – and unknown.

At the sound of steps, Askar turns away from the mystery of the wooden panel and starts walking at a quick clip towards the sound. Half of his guards hasten to take position in front of him, while the other half follow swiftly.

At the the main corridor's juncture with the inner door's hallway, the two parties meet. Askar gestures for his guards to spread out, forming a rough circle and leaving Askar alone in front of Farielle's foremost Seaward guards. He doesn't appear concerned.

"Lady Farielle." His tone is one of sardonic respect, a voice that knows the forms must be obeyed. "I have met with each of the other Tower Lords since ascending at Farside, but not with Seaward's Regent – or you. I seek to remedy that." He steps to his right side, and with a sweep of his left arm, indicates the offer for Farielle to walk next to him. "If I may have the pleasure of your company?"

Farielle inspects Askar closely, her expression giving nothing away of her thoughts or feelings. Her eyes linger a moment on his medallion, then lift to his face, and then she makes a gesture and her own guards part, though two in particular remain very near. "I do not speak for Seaward, Lord Askar," she says, with a very delicate shading on the word 'lord'. It cannot be precisely defined, but perhaps acknowledges how he gained that title.

"There is speech, and there is influence. Lacking one, you may have the other. Or at least offer the other," Askar says, "to one who could hope to grasp it. Which is why I wanted to speak to you, really." He tilts his head to the side. "About grasping."

"All fevers break eventually. Sooner or later – I hope sooner – the remainders of Numenor and the folk of Harad will live side by side again." He glances at the two closest Seaward guards. "If there are any 'Gondorians' left. It would be a shame were there not to be, don't you think?"

Askar claps his arms behind his back, a very soft sound of steel-on-steel emanating as his vambraces rub together. "And you are the obvious symbol. The Gondorian who is, for now, untouchable."

Farielle listens to all of this with no comments, pacing slowly by his side, her guards and maid following. And she lets his words linger in silence and echoes for some minutes more after he has finished. At last, with a hint of curiosity in her voice, she says, "You will take no offense if I suggest that is not a common opinion among – " The merest flicker of her eyes to the symbol of the Eye. " – your people."

"So I have uncommon opinions. I know who the real enemy is." Askar's face hardens slightly. "And our greatest enemy yet is not within, but without. And that is why I wanted to speak with you. About grasping." His left hand emerges from behind his back unconsciously to make a fist.

"If some peace were to take hold between our bloodlines in this city, it will involve you. There is no one else visible enough to speak of Numenorean loyalty. If even you, a true daughter of Gondor-" His lips twist slightly. "-will add your voice to those who call for Umbar to defend itself against this so-called King instead of lashing out at its own, then perhaps the Servants of the Eye would slow down. Or even, stop." He himself stops walking.

"Imagine the lives you could save, if you spoke out in loyalty to the Tower Lords. More lives to defend the city; fewer lives sacrificed in vain. The sacrifices can continue as prescribed before – no more, no less."

"You have some influence, Lady, if you are willing to grasp it."

Both of Farielle's eyebrows raise ever so slightly. "Indeed?" she asks, voice polite. A few more steps and then Askar stops and she does also. "Tell me what you know of this King."

Though Askar, Farielle, and their throng of guards move in one direction down the Palace hall, a smattering of swift footsteps against stone heralds the approach of a mere lone figure from the other direction — Hikalla, with an air of hurry. But when doesn't she, really?

Whatever response the Tower Lord was hoping for, that was not it. His eyes narrow, but he indulges Farielle a bit more.

"Both less and more than I would like," Askar says darkly. "You know I have seen this Necromancer's work firsthand, do you not? That he is a force for chaos is beyond doubt. And that makes our course of action clear." He turns his head to look straight at Farielle's face. "That your kinsmen are dying by the droves is also beyond doubt." In a low voice tinged with impatience, he asks bluntly, "Do you abandon them to their fate?" He lets his guards worry about the approaching footsteps, keeping his attention on Farielle.

"That is why I ask," Farielle says, unruffled. "Tell me of what you have seen." Something shifts in her face and is gone. "This is not the first man I have seen who wished to be King." She lets his other question go unanswered, though a tiny line appears between her eyebrows – appears and then vanishes into (at least outward) serenity.

Hikalla's footsteps come to a halt just shy of the conversing pair, but rather than address them in any meaningful way, she falls in easily among the Seaward entourage — though not without a small sneer at Tariq, before shuffling closer to Farielle.

"Ghosts. Spirits. The restless dead. None who remained on the fleet survived."

Askar snorts. "Fools contest kingship of a land broader than they can hold. But we can hold Umbar-" he jabs down at the floor with his left index finger. "-if we stop doing the Necromancer's work for him. But the Servants will need reasons. Good reasons."

The lady nods once and the small frown line returns; a bit deeper than before if no longer lasting. "And what reasons would you give them?" Farielle asks next. She glances at Hikalla before returning her attention to Askar.

Askar stares into Farielle's eyes unblinkingly. "i would give them your promise that Umbar's so-called Gondorians will be loyal against the true enemy, and that those who are not deserve no pity."

"They receive no pity now, regardless of loyalty. I seek to give them a chance," the Tower Lord adds.

"I shall think on what you have said," Farielle answers. She allows a small smile to curve her lips and reaches a hand behind her without looking. Her maid places a blue hat into it and Farielle settles it onto her head – for the moment, leaving the veils folded up.

"Why do you do this?" she asks then. "What do you look to receive? Those of my … kindred in this place have little to offer."

"They have bodies that can be trained to use weapons. That is enough for me."

Askar signals his guards, and they begin to form a wedge around him, facing outward into the street. "And because I serve the Eye." He bows slightly, then turns, both led and flanked by his Dark Paladins. Scorning any palanquin, he walks.

Farielle nods in return to his small bow, and lets the sheer cloth attached to her hat fall. And if behind that screen, she frowns, there is no sign of it in her voice. "Yes, Hikalla?"


	7. I Need to Talk to You

_**Author's Note: Please Read our Author Profile! This is a work of Role-Play collaberation, and there is a lot of story context outside of these chapters. :) If you'd like to participate, you can connect with us at using the link provided in the profile.**_

_June 15, 3019_

_Seaward Tower Gardens_

_The smell of brine from the sea has trouble competing with the many lingering scents from the plants: sweet, musky, spicy and cloying. So lush are these gardens that, almost, they might be named a jungle. The splashing of water from one of several fountains joins with the cries of birds. A maze of paths weave through the garden – to friends, the maze is a delightful way to spend an afternoon. To foes, it is a deadly and ingenious trap. _

_Rare and exotic wildlife live in the garden also. Colorful birds with clipped wings add to the flora and fauna while poisonous creatures add to the sense of danger. Some of the more dangerous animals are kept in caged areas – and some of these are let out some nights by their keepers._

_For those living in the Tower, the broad path that curves around the Tower from the Seaward Gate below is the easiest and the most direct way in and out of the Garden. Paved with smooth stones, the path leads out of the Garden to a clearing that ends abruptly at a set of wide stairs carved on the surface of the sheer escarpment. Archers would have a clear shot at anyone who climbs these stairs that leads to the formal entrance of the mighty Seaward Tower._

* * *

There's a bit of a drizzle falling from the skies this evening, and it is perhaps a welcome break from the heat of early September that was roasting the gardens and pathways of Seaward just a few hours past. Celegnith is hardly deterred by a little dampness from the skies, using the gardens of Seaward has his own personal playground.

At the moment, he's taking to stalking along behind one of the long legged birds. Pausing and trying to stand stock still everytime the bird notices him… and then moving forward again when the bird returns to walking forward. His hair is positively soaked through and his clothes aren't much better, but he does seem to be enjoying himself.

Farielle is equally enjoying the rain. No matter the years here, she has not grown entirely accustomed to the heat – nor has she stopped missing the gentle mists and rains of Edhellond. She, however, has a hat on, that the rain drips from the edges of – and is not so soaked as the child. Sitting on a stone bench, she watches him and smiles.

Whether Karasor shares the others' pleasure in this weather is irrelevant. If one were to take the dryness of his garments as indication, he may have stepped out but moments ago. A black scarf shields his head from the extremities of the southern weather, as always — though within the tower grounds, at such as hour, is not pulled so close about his features.

"I see that he will soon learn to be a stork, under your tutelage." These words come as he pauses, near Farielle.

Pausing awkwardly as the stork turns around to investigate this strange child pursuing him, Celegnith balances precariously on one foot, puffing out his cheeks and holding his breathe as he tries not to move a muscle. It almost looks like Celegnith might manage to keep his balance, but at the last moment as the stork begins to turn away – his senses betray him, and the child yelps as he leans just a little too far back and lands rather solidly on his butt, a foot shooting into the air and scaring the bird away with a flap and flutter of wings.

Farielle laughs. It is a quiet sound, and musical, like to the falling rain on the surface of a pond – and a rare one. Still with the echo of that laughter on her face, she says to Karasor, "It is well, then, that he has your tutelage also – to remind him he is human…"

Her face slowly becomes more serious, and after a hesitation, she says, "I would speak with you."

There is a small twitch on Karasor's features at Farielle's mirthful comment — a perking of his brows, and a slight twist at one corner of his lips.

If he notes Celegnith's comical spill, it is without much ado. Rather, his eyes are upon the woman. "Then, speak."

Popping up like he's a puppet on a set of strings, Celegnith sits there for a moment, blinking as he spends the moment getting his bearings. The child watches the bird – who has taken refuge some distance away from the strange child – with his nose scrunched up. Finally, the child sighs and extracts himself from the wet ground.

If his clothes were wet before, they're now truly sopping from his little roll on the wet ground. Still, it seems he was not ill affected by his fall, for in a moment he's bounding over to Karasor and Farielle with a wide grin.

Still Farielle hesitates, frowning a little as she selects her words. When Celegnith comes running over, she switches her frown to him, then holds out a hand to draw him near. "This also concerns you," she says, and to Karasor, "You have heard of the coup at Farside? And that Askar, who is commander of the Paladins of the Eye, is now Lord there?"

Karasor's eyes trail the hand that is extended to the boy, and there is a moment where his mouth presses into a firm line. Still, the slow nod that greets Celegnith is a welcoming one, or at least as warm as any nod from such a man may be.

"Yes, I have heard rumor of this development." He answers to the Lady, eventually. "This does concern the youth, indeed."

With a smile for Farielle's offered hand, Celegnith takes a fold of Farielle's skirt in his small hand as he settles in at her side and under her arm. A wide grin answer's Karasor's nod, and Celegnith struggles for a moment to put on his more serious face – since it seem there is serious conversation in the air. Still, the young boy's gaze flickers between the two adults as he starts to process bits of the conversation. One word in particular seems to stick out as he pipes up, "A coup? Who was ruling before?"

Farielle's arm curves lightly around the boy's shoulders and rests there. "The Lady Azradi," she says. "But she was lost in the War, and Lord Askar came home. He – " She hesitates a moment, but goes on, without mincing her words. "Slew, or had slain, all who might oppose his claim, and took the lordship."

"He has approached me with a proposal."

"You met with him?" If ever there was a hint of surprise in Karasor's tone, it is here. There is a beat of ponderous silence, 'ere here continues, shortly: "What did he want?"

Lichen eyes flicker over to Celegnith again, before returning to Farielle, as if in indication.

Nodding once with his wide grey blue eyes as he seems to file away at least some of this information for later, Celegnith wrinkles his nose a bit at the mention of slaying and he puffs out his cheeks. "He doesn't sound like a very nice sort of person…."

"Twice," Farielle says. "He wishes my support. He asks that I use my influence to persuade those of Gondorian blood in Umbar to fight against the King who has taken the throne there. He says that in return, he will stop the slaughter; return it to what it was – prescribed and limited sacrifices." Her voice is uninflected. "He says that the King – Gondor's King – is a Necromancer and must be opposed with all our might."

She takes a deep breath and goes on. "We also spoke of my going to Gondor to speak with the King in person. I – " A faint smile flicks the corner of her mouth and is gone. " – told him I wished to ask him if he could speak with my ancestors. I would be expected to bring back information on the extent of his power…."

There is more than a beat of silence from Karasor now — nay, a small tune of it. The fingers of weathered hands curl inwards upon the palms. His scarf, becoming increasingly damp, clings closely to his head. His face, stone.

"And is this how you will go, to Gondor," Finally, the even tones of his voice sound again. "Under the invisible banner of Farside?"

Bobbing his attention between the two adults, Celegnith's eyes widen a bit at the mention of a trip to Gondor, a ripple of excitement showing as he grins at this. The grin, however, fades as he considers her words further. It ends finally in a frown as he studies Farielle. Finally the child's voice says softly, "If you can escape to Gondor before having to throw your lot against the King … it could work." His brows come together, and the child tugs lightly on her skirt, "But…. it could be used to keep you here in Umbar if things go wrong."

Farielle makes a small impatient gesture. "Thank you," she says, her voice clipped. "I do agree with you; I should prefer not to go in that manner, or under his aegis. But it would be a way to go. But … What worries me, and what I wish your thoughts regarding, is his other proposal. He presses me for an answer, and I know not what to do."

"If I say no, how many more will die? Already the priests are all but drunk with blood – it is as if they have gone mad. One came to Ramio's and – they are forcing him to tell them who buys which books."

"But how can I say yes? To fight against the King?" Her eyes lift to Karasor's, and she says, "I know he is not your king but … he is mine. Unless he be in truth a man of evil, a Necromancer. And further – to do so in consort with any who serve /him/."

"I highly doubt that Lord Askar would send the Lady abroad without a firm promise of her intentions." Karasor speaks first to the boy — not reproachfully, but in a calm, explanitory tone.

Turning back to the woman, a brown brow quirks. "I am to be your advisor in such matters?" Is he pleased or displeased at the notion? Who's to say? A very small breath escapes the man. "I cannot say that our paths will match here, Farielle. As you saysaid, he is not My king."

His hands fold behind his back, in a slow motion. "But, I believe we both know the inevitable darkness of the path of the Eye." And, a shadowed frown. "You believe that the lives you would spare through such an alliegence would not be tenfold taken in the numbers from your northern kindred?"

Nodding at Karasor rather seriously, Celegnith chimes, "It seems like it would be hard to get away with – sneaking behind Lord Askar's back, I mean." The child grins a little, and though he may not get the entire meaning behind their conversation, the boy's next word is just a simple observation. "So either way people will die, won't they?"

"Yes." Farielle's voice is weary. "Either way, people will die." She straightens and makes a small, seated bow to Karasor. "I thank you." For a moment, she is very queenly. "There is no one else I dare speak with, save Hikalla. I know your path is not mine, and I am grateful for your counsel."

Her arm tightens around Celegnith's shoulders, as if involuntarily and in a low voice, she says, "I must find a way out of Umbar…"

Karasor's response is but a gracious downward tilt of his head to answer the Lady's, even if his curious gaze remains fixed upon her the while — until, that is, it turns to Celegnith as she speaks lowly. It moves swiftly from there, to the ground, over to a small patch of flowers, in a series of flickering movements.

"Celegnith," He finally speaks, "If the Lady will allow it, let us practice your penmanship."

Giving Farielle a sudden hug around the waist at her words, Celegnith flashes a suddenly wide grin at Karasor – apparently a little excited about getting another penmanship lesson from the man. Looking up at Farielle with his wide blue grey eyes, the boy asks, "Is that alright, Lady Farielle?"

Startled out of her thoughts – which were far away – Farielle blinks at Celegnith for a moment, and then nods. "Yes, certainly." And then she is thinking again, the small frown between her eyebrows returned.

"Excellent." Karasor answers, and with a slow sweep on his hand, indicates for the boy to accompany him, as he moves to stride back towards the tower doors.

Grinning at Farielle though she might be distracted, Celegnith bounds his first few steps until he's caught up with Karasor. Matching his more steady pace, Celegnith tucks his hands behind his back and tries to look at least semi-serious as he accompanies the man back inside the tower. It might even be believable, if he didn't look more like a wet mop than a little boy.


	8. A Private Tutor

_**Author's Note: Please Read our Author Profile! This is a work of Role-Play collaberation, and there is a lot of story context outside of these chapters. :) If you'd like to participate, you can connect with us at using the link provided in the profile.**_

_June 15, 3019_

_Umbar: Karasor's Chambers_

_This room is a small cell, at the end of an unfrequented hall. The only daylight comes from a narrow window, high near the ceiling - at night, two lanterns are hung upon either side of the scuffed doorframe._

_The trappings are sparse. A single-occupancy bed, draped with a blanket of worn green wool, it tucked neatly into the corner. At the foot of the bed sits a wooden chest, bound with rivets and strips of iron. Nearby, a wide wooden desk sits against the stone wall, covered in an array of parchments, ink-wells, and various quills and pens._

_ Adjacent to this is a bookshelf of towering proportions, crammed to the brim with a neatly-organized array of tomes ranging from well-worn to crisp. Beside this, an armoire of polished white ash._

_There is only one decoration: an ornate tapestry, centered on the far wall, that depicts many tall men of fair features and dark hair doing battle, the slain strewn into the bloody waters of the Erui. This is the Kinstrife._

* * *

Rain beats against the high window, as if the waves of the sea itself were breaking upon the stone of Seaward Tower. In this room, a small cell at the end of an unfrequented hall, the trappings are sparse — save for the desk, which is piled high with neatly stacked papers and an array of heavy tomes.

Two small lanterns flicker on the wall, though the pale light through the windows is still the primary source of light. The door creaks open, and is held by Karasor, who ushers a young boy. "Come in, Celegnith."

Still damp from tumbling about in the rain, Celegnith picks up his pace a little to scamper on ahead of Karasor. His bright eyes flicker about the sparse little room, but like a moth drawn to flame, the young boy is most interested in the papers and books atop the desk, and soon Celegnith is tipping his head to one side, to squint at the print on the binding of one.

The titles are a strange selection, mostly written in Haradaic, but with the occasional text of Westron and Sindarin to be found as well. Karasor takes care to clear an area of the desk, set two stools before it, and lay out a crisp, clean sheet of parchment.

"So," He begins, slowly stirring a well of dark ink, "I would like to see the improvement to the tail of your your 'calma'." A pen is set before the boy.

Clambering up on his stool after his momentary inspection of the books, Celegnith runs his hand through his wet hair, flattening it back on his head with the dampness in it before picking up the pen with his dominant hand. The boy reaches up once more, scratching a spot atop his head before he sets pen to paper and carefully makes the strokes Karasor's requested of him. "How's that?" He asks with eager, wide eyes, lifting his pen from the paper.

"Very good." Unusually, the praise is not given with any caveat. Nor does Karasor demand any more letters to be presented to him. Rather, his damp scarf is drawn down from his head. From a weathered and stoic face, lichen eyes regard the boy for a long moment.

"If the Lady Farielle leaves Umbar, you must go with her." It is not a question.

The child grins at the praise, and he sits rather poised for the next request of the pen – that never comes. Blinking once, he turns his grey eyes upwards to regard Karasor as his small face takes on a more serious cant. Celegnith's legs swing back and forth before he softly asks, "Do you think she's going to find a way out of Umbar?"

Lips purse on Karasor's face. "I have little doubt." He replies. "Do you miss your homeland?"

A large ink blot grows on the page where the tip of his pen is held, forgotten.

Nodding his head once, Celegnith's brow winkles as he studies Karasor, perhaps trying to understand something about the man just by watching him quietly. "I miss it a lot." Pausing in the quiet between the two of them, the young man swings his legs forward as he asks, "What if Lady Farielle doesn't stay in Gondor? Should I stay with her?"

Karasor's head tilts to the right, his tail of brown hair swiveling lightly against his neck as he does so. "Where else do you believe the Lady will go?" He inquires, with a long and steady gaze that suggests this to be a genuine question.

Adjusting the pen with a poke of a little finger to stop the blob on the paper from browing larger, Celegnith frowns at the dark spot before lifting his gaze to Karasor once more and pushing his hand through his hair, he draws the drying bits that are falling out back into the wet sections, replastering it atop his head. "She might come back to Umbar." The child answers rather simply. "If she thinks she can help here, Lady Farielle may not stay in Gondor."

As Celegnith pokes at the pen, Karasor's eyes dart back to page, where he swiftly lifts the tool, and brings a blotting pad to capture whatever ink might run further astray. The tools are set aside with a slow care, before he returns his attention to their conversation.

There is a distinct, if slight, widening of his eyes. "Indeed?" A blank silence. Then: "Even if the Lady returns, you must stay in Gondor, do you understand?"

The young boy frowns at these final words, and he stares at the ink blot for a long moment before he finally sighs. "I don't want her to come back here if I have to stay in Gondor." Celegnith lifts his lightly colored eyes to fix on Karasor and he studies the man for a moment as he tugs one foot up onto the stool with him and half sits on the appednage. "Are you going to stay here?"

There is a noteable increase in the vastness of Karasor's expressions, here, in this room — in that they are more than mere hints. A wanness crosses his features as the boy speaks again of Farielle. "Nonetheless, you must remain." He repeats. "Perhaps she will remain, with you."

Celegnith's question is met with a long inhale. "I do not belong in Gondor," A beat so brief, it may not be a beat at all — "Anymore." He finishes. Finger drum lightly upon the desk, yet still, he gazes upon the boy. "Nor am I welcome there."

Tipping his head to the side, Celegnith considers Karasor's words as he swings one leg back and forth. "You went to Gondor before…?" Though the young boy frowns because he's not sure what before there was exactly for Karasor in Gondor. It's an idea that's never crossed the child's mind before, and Celegnith seems momentarily distracted considering this before he asks rather curiously without waiting for an answer to his first half formed question, "Why aren't you welcome there?"

"Before what?" The question is simple, as is his answer to Celegnith's own. "I am here, now. In that land, that is enough." He has turned away from his focus upon the boy, now rearranging his stacks with the shuffle of paper and a small 'pop' as he corks the ink again.

The boy frowns in a mild sort of confusion as he tries to put words with his questions to get the answers that he really wants. "Before…." Celegnith dithers a bit more, his young eyes following Karasor's tidying up before he finally manages to come out with, "You were in Gondor before Umbar? And if Fari and I are allowed to go back after being here…. why not you?"

"Yes, I was." Karasor answers, neatly filing the books of Sindarin apart from the rest. "I came here, many years ago, under the banner of Ar-Gimilkhor. He has long since departed," He explains, pausing over one book in particular. "However, fealty to Umbar is not something that one may retract."

Wrinking up his nose as he frowns in such a way that looks more cute that serious on a child's face, Celegnith picks at the corner of the paper in front of him with the edge of his finger. "Maybe… if this King's really 'the' King… some things like that can change."

Lifting his gaze to stare at Karasor, the child adds, "Because I'm going to miss you -" Flashing a grin the little fellow adds, "And your lessons, too." Lifting his hand to suddenly rub at the back of his hair, Celegnith screws up his nose further as he adds, "It makes me feel …. strange. Do you think it's strange to think you might miss some things about a place – even if you didn't rally like the place?"

"There is nothing left for me in Gondor." Karasor is firm in this statement, even if he continues to stare heavily upon the books that he organizes, rather than the boy.

That is, until Celegnith's latter statements. The man's gaze flickers once more in his direction, brown brows perked. "I am certain that your customary teacher shall be glad to give you your lessons again." He says, but suddenly, a hand comes firmly upon the boy's shoulder for a moment. "No, Celegnith. It is not strange." His stare is an arrow, now. "But you cannot miss them forever."

"The same lessons…. but I don't want to forget what I've learned here either." The hand on his shoulder brings Celegnith's gaze back up to meet that stare, and the child's frown hardly softens. "Maybe not forever… but forever's a long time to work on not missing people. When do you think you stop missing people… things… that you lose?"

"You may still practice all of the things I have taught you." Karasor pauses, and takes his hand from the child, only to reach within his robe to withdraw a very small key. This, he uses to open a drawer on the underside of the desk, in which he digs for a moment. Eventually, he places two thoughtfully-chosen, beaten-looking, and thin tomes before the boy, one after the other. There are no markings on the bindings. "And you may have these, to aide you."

Karasor draws another breath, as he answers Celegnith's question. "When it becomes apparent that there is no further use, for yourself, or others, in your doing so."

"I will!" Celegnith responds instantly as he leans forward a little on the stool. "I'll keep practicing Haradric, too, and I suppose cooking…" A thoughtful expression crosses the child's face as he ponders his work in the kitchen. Suddenly he wonders aloud, "The cook would never forgive me if I forgot how to make cream sauce – would he?"

"Books?" There's an eager note in his voice, and a pair of small hands lift one of the books, turning it around in his hands and inspecting them thoroughly before cracking the one in his hands open to peek inside. Celegnith pauses mid-motion opening the book, to ask Serven, "So…. do you just know when to stop missing people? It just … happens? Or do you have to work at it?"

A low, soft chuckle even escapes Karasor. "No, I suppose there is not wrath akin to that of a cook scorned."

Suddenly, Karasor's hand snaps out again, even as Celegnith moves to crack open the book, pressing it shut against the table with a swift 'thump'. "Celegnith, everything I have told you is important," He says, "But this is of a special importance. These books are for you, and no other. Not Hikalla, -not- Lady Farielle, not even your usual teacher. Yours, -only-." There is an altogether foreign wildfire in his gaze. "Do you understand me?"

But as it had come, so the flame goes, leaving a calm and scorched absence in its wake. "It is not something that 'happens'. It is a decision, one in which you must stand firm."

The child seems a bit surprised to have actually gotten a chuckle out of Karasor, and it's something that makes the young fellow grin rather widely. However, the next emotion on Karasor's face is just as unusual in its own right, and Celegnith regards the the fiery look in the man's eyes with a mixture of both curiosity and serious consideration. Tipping his head, the child looks at the books again, this time not opening the one again quite right away. "A secret between you and me?" Celegnith's gaze darts up from the books back to Karasor the back to the the interesting tomes before him – at least momentarily waylaid fomr his previous line of questioning about 'forgetting', though it's clear that the comment about choosing to forget seems to register somewhere in there with a little nod. This one question, however, seems of greatest pressing concer at the moment.

"Yes," Karasor answers, finally lifting his hand again from the books, sliding them over to the boy again upon the surface of the desk with a quiet shuffle. "Exactly. A secret, between you, and me. And this one," Is that a curl at the edges of his lips? "You may remember forever."

Eagerly looking over the books, Celegnith glances between the two tomes before picking the pair up and giving Karasor a wide grin. "I'll keep them secret, and I won't tell anyone, sir."

Rocking back to free the foot that's been tucked under his leg, his tousled black hair is nearly dry now, and a few chunks hang rather unevenly in his eyes. Blowing them out of the way with a puff of air, Celegnith sighs once before he finally comments. "So really, you always have to remember some things because they're always important… and you can choose to forget the things that aren't important." The child squints as he looks up at one of the flickering lanterns and the dimming windows, then he glances back to Karasor. "It must be really hard to be an elf then. I'm only nine years old and I already have too much stuff to miss and remember and forget."

"It is not a matter of what is important or unimportant, Celegnith. You can choose to forget nearly anything," Karasor replies, eyes scanning over the boy's unruly dark hair. "Save that which has been written. This, above all, is the great power of the Lorekeeper."

There is a wan kindness to Karasor's features, as the boy speaks of elves. "Yes, that must be a hard trial for them, indeed. But they have many songs, and keep their memories thus."

Grinning as he considers the plight of being an elf some more, Celegnith suddenly laughs at some thought, and he rocks back and forth in his seat as he holds up a hand and scratches his temple, "Lorekeepers keep memories for men… and elves keep memories in song. But I just realized that if it's kind of embarassing, but you still don't want to forget it that having someone start singing about it would be really awkward. More awkward than just reading about it."

Considering his for several moments longer, Celegnith nods his head once, "And if you're the lorekeeper you can even write down precisely what you want others to remember and leave out the bad parts if you wanted too, but there was that time I got lost in the maze and one of the girls in the kitchen had to help me… and I shouldn't forget about that…" Wirnking up his nose Celegnith stares at Karasor as he adds bluntly, "But… I really don't want someone singing about it to everyone who passes by either."

Yes, it is an unmistakeable smirk that grows upon Karasor's face, creeping up an inch further with every additional explanation Celegnith gives on just how embarrassing life must be for elves. "Well, you have the fortune of being mortal, and thus not subject to the eternal scorn of those who might sing lays of your less-than-impeccable moments." He offers, kindly.

Nodding once then twice then thrice, Celegnith shakes his head slowly. "I think we're very lucky, indeed, sir. One day… I should like to meet an elf though. I want to know what they do if someone starts singing embarassing things. Maybe they like it? I've heard they can be kind of odd you know." Oh the pondering's of the nine year old mind.

A glance to the darkening windows, and then back to Karsor, the child seems to register the passing of time only now. "Lady Farielle's going to be waiting for me!" Still be pauses, giving the man a sudden grin, Celegnith adds in a completely off topic fashion as he mentally bounds right back to nearly the beginning of the convesration. "Just… once I make it back to Gondor – how long do I need to make sure I stay there do you think?"

"Then, you must practice your letters and speech of the grey tongue, when you return to Gondor, should such an event ever arise." His usual air of quiet seriousness has returned, and Karasor nods slowly to Celegnith's need to depart imminently.

He tilts his gaze upon the boy. "You must remain there until you are old enough to understand why it is that you must never return to this place." He says, his tone heavy.

Frowning at the stipulation, Celegnith peers up at Karasor for a few long moments before he nods and rather reluctantly says, "I think I'm going to have to get a lot older aren't I?" Puffing out his cheeks, with air, he blow it out in one huff as he holds the two books close to his chest. "I'll keep an eye on Lady Farielle if she stays in Gondor, and you can keep an eye on her if she comes back here. Promise?"

"I promise." Karasor's answer is decisive, and so is his nod, as Celegnith takes the books that have been bestowed upon him. "Now, you must not keep her waiting." He brushes the air with his hand, indicating the door, even as he turns to spread a fresh parchment out onto his desk, and clean his pen meticulously with the blotting-cloth.

Karasor's promise seems to do much to ease whatever child-like worries Celegnith has been harboring, and the child grins widely as he replies brightly, "Promise!" Grinning a bit more at Karasor as the man cleans his pen and readies his desk anew, Celegnith finally makes for the door when he glances at the window and once more notes the deepening dark. Perhaps realizing he might be a tad late in getting back even, the child makes a small sound of suprise and then practically bounds out the door with a cheerful, "Goodnight, Karasor!" The words are followed by a scamper of small feet just before the door gets pulled shut behind him.


	9. A Delegate Appointed

**Author's Note: Please Read our Author Profile! This is a work of Role-Play collaberation, and there is a lot of story context outside of these chapters. :) If you'd like to participate, you can connect with us at using the link provided in the profile.**

July 3, 3019

Meanwhile, in Gondor...

_Tower Hall_

_A long passage leads to a metal door, which opens into a great hall. Black, marble pillars hold up the roof, and between them are deep-set windows, and a multitude of carven images. The tops of the pillars are decorated with carved plants and animals, and the distant ceiling is a dull, shadowed gold, inset with tracings of many colors._

_At the far end, a throne stands on a dais beneath a canopy of marble. The wall behind bears a gemmed mosaic of a tree in flower. On the lowest step of the dais, sits a black stone chair. In a corner, there is an unobtrusive door._

* * *

Through-out the past weeks, the call has gone forth – the King desires to send an embassage to Umbar, to offer peace and perhaps, some day, alliance. But that is for the future; today, in this first step, it will be enough to cease killing each other. And now he has opened his court to those who have come – either to ask to join, or to see who will essay such a trial – or to mock the foolishness of such hopes.

Aragorn sits on his throne; his wife beside him. There is a low hum of conversation in the crowd – richly dressed courtiers and nobles and wealthy merchants – and some few dwarves and elves as well, and even hobbits. These strangers are eyed askance by many, but openly shunned by none.

Among the throngs of the gathered public, there is a tall man — well, lad — well, perhaps he is on the cusp of these both. His youthful features are drawn together in a brooding thoughtfulness, this day. Clad in blue, bearing the sigil of the swan, he does not oggle the strange visitors. His path is single-minded, and it leads towards the front of the crowd, which he pushes through like a deep drift of snow.

Aragorn nods to the man he is speaking to, putting a hand on his shoulder. The man bows and turns away, and the king looks up at his steward, waiting for the next candidate to be announced.

The steward clears his throat, and reads from a light scroll that he holds out before him with both hands. "Brethedil Palanllach!" He calls, his voice sharp over the low din of the gathered.

A light is in the youth's silvery eyes as his name is called, and it is not long before he emerges from the horde to stand alone, at the seat of Aragorn.

"My King." Dark hair falls forward as he bows.

"Brethedil Palanllach," Aragorn says. "You desire to be a part of the envoy to the south?"

He looks a little doubtfully at the youth.

Brethedil's eyes rise, as does he, to look upon Aragorn with a fire of presence that belies his age. "Yes." He answers, and swiftly. "The light of Gondor is needed in the reaches of the world that remain dark yet."

"True," is the reply. "Yet – there are men and plenty who would go; with no disrespect to your youth, men full of the wisdom of age and experience. Tell me, Brethedil Palanllach, why should I send you?"

"Men who may weary, whom the shadow has long touched. Men who have dutifully earned their rest." Replies the youth, a pride in his baritone. "What I lack in the wisdom of years, I will bring in the new light of our land — a new time, with a new heart."

There is a line to his dark brow, "Would I be chosen, I would return with our dignity."

Aragorn listens to these words, and there is something in the light of his eyes as they rest on the young man's face that seems to see beyond the surface. "And?" he asks softly.

"And?" Brethedil repeats, appearing slightly disarmed by the simplicity of this word. But he is swift to recompose himself. "And," He says, a small note of confusion lingering in his tone, "That is why I believe I should be sent."

"Do you fear then, that older men would sacrifice the dignity of Gondor?" It is a simple question, with no mockery behind it.

"No, I do not fear — " If Brethedil begins to sound indignant, it is quickly put to rest, and he inhales deeply. "I merely make a case for myself, my Lord. I do not think I posses greater dignity than the men of long-tried mettle," He inclines his head, "But I do not believe my youth to be the weakness that elder men may."

"Did I say it was a weakness?" Aragorn asks mildly. "Well then, why else should I send you?"

Brethedil's mouth opens and shuts like a guppy. "No," He eventually admits, his eyes now flashing briefly to the steward, who stands to give him a skeptical look. They return to Aragorn. "I…" He straightens, though there is a trouble in his brow, and his tone drops. "I must retrieve something of great value to my family."

Both eyebrows raise. "From Umbar?" the King asks. There is a weight on his brow, as if he frowns or is troubled. "That is one thing I would bring to an end," he tells the young man. "Perhaps – " Arwen leans forward to say something quietly into his ear and he listens gravely, then nods and smiles at her. Back to Brethedil, "Very well. But take care; your very urgency might lead you into error." He straightens, looking sternly into the youth's eyes. "There is no room for foolish or reckless acts – You go as representatives of Gondor, and of her King; and may not act solely from your own desires."

"My errand is not for some selfish trinket," Brethedil begins to reply, but as the King gives pause and continues, there is a widening of the youth's grey eyes. To these latter words, he does not speak — he nods, and bows.

"Hold yourself in readiness." It is a dismissal, though Aragorn waits until the boy is gone before looking to see who comes next.


	10. A Priest Calls at Ramio's

**Author's Note: Please Read our Author Profile! This is a work of Role-Play collaberation, and there is a lot of story context outside of these chapters. :) If you'd like to participate, you can connect with us at using the link provided in the profile.**

_July 15, 3019_

_Ramio's Books_

_Tiny, dusty and exceedingly crowded, there is barely room to edge between the towering shelves that are crammed with pages of all sorts. Some are tidily bound between covers, others lie loose on the shelves, and still others are scrolls, tied with varying sorts of strings. Ramio himself is a young man with a wide, ingratiating smile. Incongruously, there are three scimitars and one long, wicked-looking dagger hung on the wall behind the miniscule desk where he keeps his records._

* * *

As summer wanes, the sea becomes more stormy – only a little as of yet, but a promise of the worse tempests near the autumnal equinox. But though a black cloud broods in the west and sailors come ashore telling of torrential downpours, the city of Umbar swelters in the heat and humidity. Tempers flare, and the only thing that has so far prevented full-scale rioting is that the heat also saps the energy.

With the coming of evening, a cooler breeze begins to blow though, and the city begins to stir. Veiled, wearing a dress of pale green silk, and accompanied by two guards, Farielle pauses outside the bookshop and then steps inside. After so many years, her Haradaic is nearly fluent – only a faint accent betrays her. "Have you any new books of poetry?" she asks the young proprietor.

Inside, a customer or two browses amidst the dust. One is a tall young man of dark hair and fair skin–his grey eyes flicker up as the door is opened, then back down to the two books that lay open before him at a table at whcih he stands. His tunic is linen, light-colored for the heat, with a sash of Farside's colors across it. His waist holds a sword and scabbard.

Farielle's arrival is also marked by two other men, one near the entrance, one near to Mikkan; both are in Farside's colors and have the darker skin of the Haradrim.

"One moment!" Ramio's face has broken into a huge smile at Farielle's entrance. Perhaps this is how he greets all his customers – or perhaps the lady is a frequent customer. The young shopkeeper turns and edges past Mikkan and the other Farside man, while Farielle's guards watch the other men with an edge of caution. The coup at Farside has not gone unnoticed, and perhaps they wonder if they are now enemies who once were friends.

Farielle smiles in return and waits in silence, glancing around as she does so. And after a moment, her gaze lands on Mikkan. "Mikkan," she says, the same edge in her voice as is in her guards' eyes. "Good even."

The young man looks up, sharply so, at the sound of his name–his features relaxing after a moment as the fairly recognizable voice is paired with a face recognized neath Farielle's veil.

"Lady Farielle," Mikkan returns–cautiously, with a glance to her guards. "You are well, I take it?"

"Yes – and you? The turmoil in the … streets has not reached you?" In the back, a few shelves over, Ramio can be heard flipping through books and scrolls.

"Well.." Mikkan smirks, jerking his head to the guard nearest him, "I have been advised to take precautions when I venture into the streets. It seems that my heritage is unwanted these days. And I cannot wear a veil. Or will not, at least."

"But you are out and about, as well."

"Yes – " Farielle says again. "With guards." She allows herself a small smile, which fade quickly. "To allow such things to mew me up within…" She shrugs and leaves the sentence unfinished.

"It worries me, this unbridled hostility. And few will stand against it; yet, there are many men and women with grey eyes who were born here and have lived all their lives loyal to Umbar."

"While the King yet lived, such behavior would not have been tolerated," Mikkan says with bitterness. "But now…now they blame the failings of their god..their Eye," he says with a quick glance to check that his nearby guard has not heard, "on us. And yet their god was not strong enough to hold off the necromancer from the Stoneland," he says. "Only those who fled lived."

Farielle lets her own voice drop. "Their god is no god," she says, voice serene. "How could he then fall before a man?"

"You too speak of him as a necromancer. But you were not … Askar?"

"Not a man," Mikkan shakes his head. "Or if so, a great necromancer. He commanded an army of ghosts, Askar says. "A vast army of ghosts that swept over the ships, killing all who fought against him."

Though the young man has dropped his voice, the guard nearest him now raises an eyebrow and clears his throat.

"I too have heard this," Farielle admits. "Yet.. " She leaves her doubts unspoken, going on to say instead, allowing a little fretful note to enter her voice, "I would I might have seen him with my own eyes."

By the quiet sounds of shuffling and papers flipping against each other, Ramio has moved to another shelf. Even he, it appears, is uncertain where everything is in his shop.

"You would not have lived," Mikkan shakes his head. "Even the King and my father did not survive the attack," he says–with conviction in his voice, and yet pain, too. "No, clearly this new necromancer who calls himself king has power far beyond what could be imagined before."

"Ramio." The name rings out in a silky smooth, cultured voice. It commands attention. A man in black robes wearing a silver medallion with the Eye imprinted on the front steps alone past the guards into the shop. Unlike the Paladins', his medallion is rimmed with gold, marking him as a priest proper. "Ramio, it's time for that list, my friend." There is nothing of friendliness in his voice, just knowledge and enjoyment of the power he holds for now over the bookseller.

The priest seems unconcerned that anyone else – even someone with guards – might be in the shop, though he looks surprised to see Farside and Seaward guards in such close proximity.

Instinctively, Farielle lifts her hand as if to touch the boy. "I am sorry for you," she says quietly.

A little louder, leaving that aspect of the subject behind, "I am sure that you are right. Still… I like to see for myself. It is hard to believe that Gondor would …" The door opens and she stops speaking, glancing sideways to see who has come in. At the sight of the priest, her face seems to still, but she goes on with only that slightest hesitation. " … be able to make such a lovely thing again, or if he has lost his skills with his sight?"

"One moment… Yes. Yes, of course. One moment. I have it … here." The skittery sounds from the back of the room increase and a very flustered, and rather dusty, young bookseller hurries forward with a sheet of paper. "Not – not very many people have – have been coming," he apologizes.

Mikkan is not so adept or quick at disguising his feelings. He turns pale, too–but then a stubborn look comes upon him as Raimos hurries to obey, and he takes a bold step forward.

"How is it that your…" the boy begins loudly. This is abruptly cut off by the rather large hand of the guard who had been nearest to him now being clapped over his mouth, the young man dragged backwards and away from the priest.

"Mouthy teenagers," the guard mutters.

The priest gives the list a once-over, tut-tutting as he reaches the bottom. "There are not a lot of names on this list, Ramio. They may consider pulling the books altogether. This is not the crop we hoped to harvest. Ramio," he says, his smooth voice going still softer and almost sultry, as he steps closer to the bookseller and hooks a finger around his collar, pulling him until they are very nearly nose-nose – and more importantly, eye-to-eye. "Is there anything you don't have written down? Something that could make you look a little better? I know you want to keep a good reputation, do honestly by the Eye, but this-" Not taking his eyes from Ramio's, the priest flicks the page. "-this is not the work of a man who hopes to keep his reputation. Is it."

"Leave the man alone." It is a deep, bored voice – one of Farielle's guards, the taller, bulkier one, takes a step forward. "He can't help it if no one comes into his store."

There's a squeak from the corner and then, in a deep male voice: "Ow!"

Mikkan's guard shakes his hand where the teen has bitten it, wriggling out of the man's grasp and coming forward. "He…he just sells books!" Mikkan says angrily.

Ramio gurgles, and looks terrified. "I …" he gasps. "But .. no one has come! It is the truth, Honored One!"

"The Servants do not answer to Seaward," the priest says sharply to Farielle's guard, but his attention is grabbed more by Mikkan."Ah, the pup has a bark," the priest says with a laugh. "And a bit of bite," he adds, looking at the guard with the bloodied hand." The priest releases Ramio's collar, as he peers at Mikkan. "What beautiful eyes you have, child." The paper in his hand is, for the moment, forgotten.

Ridhwan catches Ramio's eye and jerks his head. The young bookseller gapes at him for a moment, then catches on and scuttles for the back – out of sight.

And it is Farielle who speaks up now, her veils having been discreetly rewound while the priest was occupied. In a carefully neutral voice, she says, "He is the ward of Lord Askar…"

"Eyes of Gondor," Mikkan says stubbornly. "The true Gondor, not the cowards who accept the puppet who has taken the throne."

But then he falters, eyes flickering to Farielle as she speaks.

The priest's knowing smile falters, too. "The Servants do not answer to Farside Tower, either," he says in a dark voice full of resentment. Looking around, he notices the bookseller has made his escape. He has to carefully unwrinkle the paper that he has half-crumpled in his hand. "Tower Lords rise and fall. The Eye is forever. 'Eyes of Gondor,' indeed," he snorts.

"If Lord Askar consorts with Gondorians, his days number fewer than I'd guessed." Nevertheless, he looks over his shoulder as he speaks, then seems angry that he did so. "The Eye is watching," the priest snaps, taking his paper and shoving his way back out the front door of the shop. Losing the whip-hand stripped the polished veneer right off of him.

"Stupid boy!" roars the guard with the bitten hand, crossing the store in three broad strides and leveling a punch into Mikkan's gut that is hard enough to send him sprawling into a nearby bookshelf, books and shelving toppling upon him in a clatter. "Spoiled brat!" the guard spits. "Do you think your fancy father and his fancy king are going to protect you now that they're dead? Dead! All any of in Farside have now is the protection of Lord Askar, and what do you do? Spit in his face the first chance you get!" He aims a kick into Mikkan's ribs, and the boy screams at the impact.

"Enough," Ridhwan says, his voice still bored. "The boy's learned. Hasn't he?" He directs a meaningful glare at Mikkan, curled up on the floor. "And there's no sense in saving the man's books from /him/ for us to destroy them. Let his lordship chastise him as he sees fit, an he's his ward."

The second Farside guard, while staying closer to the door, warns the first, "You know the Lord's orders. We are to protect him, even from himself." He looks at Mikkan. "Why he thinks you're worth more trouble than the rest of the Gondorians, I don't know."

"Don't know," Mikkan croaks from the floor. "Rather be dead."

"Get up," replies the guard with the bitten hand, more irritated and annoyed now than anything else. He leans down and jerks the boy onto his feet. "The Lady," the guard jerks his head to Farielle, "was married to his father. Maybe she knows that answer."

Tariq has remained in the background, silent, his eyes moving from one to the next to the next. When the priest leaves, he lets his hand relax on his sword-hilt. Now, he speaks up. "If you want to die, boy, that's your choice. But don't do it when you'll take them with you as can't choose for themselves. Go jump into the harbor, if you will."

"Perhaps so that he may bring honor to his father's house," Farielle speaks up. There is an undercurrent to her voice, perhaps of a meaning held private.

Honor. Mikkan looks up, bitterness clearing from his face as he stares at Farielle. He licks his lips, then stands up straighter–elbowing bitten guard in the gut as he does so.

"My father's house has passed to me, and I must do what is right," he says in a clear voice.

The elbow hits leather armor, but the Farside guard still grunts with the impact. He looks inclined to fight elbow with elbow, or perhaps another fist, but he glances at the guard by the door, who is watching him. "Orders," he says, backing away from where he's within immediate reach of the would-be princeling.

Ridhwan nods in approval of Mikkan's words. "But remember wisdom, my lord," he counsels. "Think on this – what would have happened had your guard not bid you be silent?" His eyes go meaningfully towards where Ramio has disappeared. "The full might of the Eye yet is great, and all cannot afford guards such as yours." He turns away then, as Farielle moves towards the door to leave. Tariq precedes the lady out.

"Lady Farielle," Mikkan calls after the departing woman, grimacing at Ridhwan's words, but directing his attention to the woman. "I apologize for putting you and your party in danger. And I would like…should you permit me–to come talk about Gondor soon."


	11. A Conversation in Seaward Tower

**Author's Note: Please Read our Author Profile! This is a work of Role-Play collaberation, and there is a lot of story context outside of these chapters. :) If you'd like to participate, you can connect with us at using the link provided in the profile.**

_J__uly 19, 3019_

_Seaward Tower Library_

_Many tomes and scrolls, mostly old but a few of more recent vintage, prominently line the walls of this eastern chamber, filling shelves that are seven feet high. Yet, equally important is the desk beneath the eastern window, and a small arrangement of couches and footstools; here the Lord receives more intimate guests than in the vast hall below. A discrete door leads to a small study._

_Following the gentle curve of the wall are the windows, six in all from the northeast to the southeast. During the long mornings, the sun makes this the brightest chamber in the Tower, and dust motes from the ancient tomes dance in the sunlight. But the wonders of this room can barely compete with the breathtaking view of Umbar provided by the windows._

* * *

As evening falls, the winds pick up, blowing threatening black clouds nearer to shore. Quite possibly this is the reason the Lady Farielle has not gone out into the gardens, but instead sits in the library reading. Several lamps have been lit, making the area where she is bright, though the main part of the room falls in shadow.

Farside guards have been left behind-no doubt asked to wait outside of the tower, but here Mikkan is, led in and announced by two guards from Seaward. The young man looks awkward from all this fuss-but he waits, biting his lower lip.

Farielle looks up from her book, and then smiles at the boy. Her eyes are in shadow, so it makes it hard to tell if the expression reaches them or not. But she sets aside her book and gestures to a chair, nodding to the guards - who leave the room, but doubtless wait just outside the door. "Good evening, Mikkan," she says. "I was right, then? You remain at Farside, under Lord Askar's aegis?"

Though he takes the seat that Farielle gestures to, it is not until the guards have left that Mikkan answers-at first with only a silent nod of his head.

Then, he looks up to Farielle, puzzled. "You were right. But why?"

"Why was I right?" Farielle sounds just as puzzled as Mikkan does. "I guessed," she answers after a moment. "I felt certain no one in Black Tower would wish to go against Lord Askar, and earlier, he had said he had a young man in his protection that I thought might be you." She looks at him, with a small vertical line between her eyebrows.

"Well, yes, it is me," Mikkan answers, though he shakes his head. "Is he truly that powerful-that no one will oppose him? How did he manage such a thing?"

"When a man can order another taken and killed for no reason save a whim, and has the authority that others will carry out his orders..." Farielle lets her words trail off, and her face is a little sad. "I have heard that he had everyone with any claim to Farside's Lordship killed so that there would be none to oppose his rule. Would you learn from him?" It seems to be a genuine question.

"Anyone left here in Umbar that is," Mikkan says carefully, glancing about and lowering his voice before he speaks. "Though if it were my choice whether to return and rule Farside...I would not."

But that said, he considers Farielle's second question, the expression in his eyes hardening.

"My father is dead. My king is dead. The woman who raised me is dead. Learn from him? What choice do I have?"

"Yes," Farielle agrees, her voice equally low. "I am glad of that."

"Are there no others?" she asks then. "You are a man, Mikkan. Consider what manner of man you wish to be."

Face somewhat softer, as he speaks of his father and of Azradi, she says quietly, "Though he is dead, yet you can learn from him."

"I..." Mikkan's mouth works as he tries to form an answer, but fails. "I do not know," he says. "Who or what or how. There is no King, there is no purpose, save to avenge my father's and the King's death. And what good is that-what good can I do when a great necromancer now rules us all?"

"And in the place of my father and the King there is this-this Eye worshipper," he says with no thought to the volume of his voice, though he is not yelling. "My father never worshipped the Eye. He would not speak of it, not openly, but I know he did not. But now I owe my life to Askar and he-well, he has a plan. He will give me the one thing that I can think of-avenging the king and my father."

"But..." Farielle's last has drawn him out of his own self pity-he looks at her in some surprise. "Learn from my father? You, of all people, say this?"

"What good can you do?" Farielle's voice is quiet, musing, as if she speaks to herself some passing thought. "I see no necromancer in Umbar. If any rule here, now, when so many of our Lords and their men are slain, it is the Servants of the Eye. Is that what you wish? Umbar is your city also."

"Why not?" Farielle asks then, allowing herself to sound little surprised as well. "Because I did not wish to be wed to him, or he to me? I did not always agree with him, but that does not blind me to what of good there was in him."

"I..I do not wish the Servants of the Eye to rule-no. But he spared my life and I am indebted to him for that. And...he is being merciful to the Farsiders and to the Gondorians. If I leave or betray him, likely they will suffer because of it. And what do you suggest I do or where should I go? Come here?" Mikkan shakes his head. "What good would that do? I have no men, nor power. It is enough that Seaward has to protect those sworn to its Tower-they do not need to also be protecting me wherever I go."

"No," he shakes his head again. "I will stay with Askar and make the best of it. Though I do not know what he will ask me to do as a price for that."

"As for my father-what can I learn from him now?"

"If none stand against them, they will rule, and what will be the state of Umbar then?" Farielle watches the boy speak, and the sadness grows in her face, half in the shadow of the lamps. One more thing she says, "Perhaps you might consider now, what price you would find too great to pay," before shaking her head in self-mockery. "I beg your pardon. You came here, no doubt for some reason, and I have not let you tell me of it. What might I do for you?" His other questions - they are left to ring in his own ears; she gives him no answers. Not yet.

The boy listens, watching also, in silence as Farielle speaks, and nervously biting his lower lip. "They are all the same, underneath," he says quietly in response. "And Askar...I think he is different. I think he is more...reasonable. And if my goal is to avenge my father, Azradi, and the king-then what price is too high? My own death? How else could I accomplish this vengeance? The death of others? Surely, that will happen, too, whether I am involved or no."

"But..." his voice trails off, the anger fading.

"I am here because...because I would like your support. In supporting Askar...and.." an idea grows in him, eagerness with it, "with your support, we could moderate his views. Control..the things you do not like about the Servants. He needs your support-and mine. We could pressure him. Influence him?"

"What of your honor?" Farielle asks. "Is that a price too great? Your father thought much of his. You asked how you could learn from him; that is one way." She smiles and gently says, "There are things worse than death."

To his proposal she listens thoughtfully. "And what should we support him in?" she asks, nothing but curiosity in her voice.

"Honor? Tell me what honor is in this time of turmoil? The Farside Tower Lady is dead. Father and King too. So...balance honor for me with the need to survive-how and under whose protection? And besides, I'm not condoning what he does," Mikkan shakes his head.

"But...what I am saying is that we should support him in his bid to be the leading voice who controls Umbar-that way we can pressure him, no?"

"Can we?" Farielle asks. "You have seen some of Lord Askar, do you think he would bow easily to pressure?" She shakes her head a little then, and looks down at her hands. Lowering her voice, she murmurs, "I do not know. To lend support to the Eye..."

Looking up again, she tells him, "That, I am afraid, Mikkan, you must find for yourself. I cannot tell you." A breath, as if it is hard for her to speak the words, and slowly, she says, "Even the ... Knights of Prince Imrahil wrestled with that question. But I spoke not of Lord Askar, but of yourself."

"The Eye is here in Umbar whether you like it or not," Mikkan says, shrugging. "And things have not changed-did you not support the Eye before? or look the other way, perhaps? Or did you oppose them? Besides, it is not just the Eye-now there is all of Farside involved. Unless the Lady Azradi returns from the dead, who else will lead us? And all the people I know there-do I just abandon them?"

And then, to her second comment, he tilts his head. "They did?"

This brings a shadow to the woman's face, more than from the flickering candles, and for a long moment, she looks into nothing. At last, she remembers herself and nods. "It is not an easy thing, to find the path of honor, or even is meaning. If it were easy, there would be no virtue in possessing it." It sounds as if she quotes someone.

"I have never supported the Eye," Farielle says, calmly enough though with steel in her voice. "Nor did I pretend to, for my Lady Eruphel did not require it. Nor did your father. Seaward has always looked to their ancestors. But I quite see that it is different for you."

"You could lead them," she says mildly. "It is what you were trained to do. But I would not recommend that you attempt to overthrow Lord Askar just at the moment - I do not wish you to die also."

"I didn't say I was supporting the Eye!" Mikkan answers, suddenly defensive. "I just..." He frowns, searching for some answer and shaking his head. "You confuse me. It seemed so clear when I talked to Lord Askar, and now it is not. I mean...it seemed all I had to do was be reasonable and he would be reasonable. And now...I'm confused."

"-I- could lead them?" He looks up, surprised.

"Umbar has prospered under the ruler of the Council of Lords," Farielle says. "With each having an equal voice. Why should we change that now?"

"Perhaps," she suggests, "You could watch him, and see how he deals with others, in public and in secret. Take your measure of his reasonableness. Then you will know how he will deal with you."

She smiles at him. "Certainly. Do you think you could not? It is what you were raised to do, is it not? Be a leader of men." Again, though there is clearly no one around to overhear, she adds, "But you must not try to wrest the leadership from Lord Askar. He is a man in the prime of his strength, with all the might of Black Tower behind him."

"I will watch him, yes. Though he worships the Eye and..." Mikkan now shudders-finally perhaps. "And has ordered that all in Farside take the Eye as their first god. WE do not have to gie up our gods...only add his. And yet...he says he will avenge my father's death-he will help me with that, against Gondor and this false king."

"I could not beat him if I tried!" he continues witha quick shake of his head. And his voice, lowered now, he says, "and it's said he uses poison...snakes..."

"Be careful, Mikkan."

And then she changes the subject. "Tell me what you think of these rumors, that the works of the Eye have fallen. I have heard very little; men will not speak of it when they think any might hear."

"I may be young but I'm not stupid," Mikkan says. "I was taught better than that. But...how, as you say..?"

"Fallen? But...but they say their god has just left them as a test, no? Do you know otherwise?"

She shakes her head and smiles. "You asked who else could lead, and I reminded you of yourself. That is all. I do not say that you should, merely that you could. What strength of men have you, who would follow your command? Whose loyalties do you hold? One may rule by fear, it is true, but love is stronger."

"I do not know. I only wondered what you have heard, for I am sure you hear more than I. A test," she muses. "I suppose then, that they say he will return to reward the faithful?"

"No, not enough men. Just a few my father had assigned to me from his men, plus those of the Lady Azradi's men who still remain and live. But most went to war. We were supposed to win," he says grimly.

"Yes," he continues, "that's exactly what they are saying-is it not the truth? Is there any way to test if it is not the truth? And if it isn't...if the Eye has fallen somehow-what does that mean?"

"If you are to lead, you must find men," Farielle tells him. "Bind them to you with loyalty, so that they will follow you to their deaths, if they must. Because they want to, not because they fear you."

"I have no way of knowing if it is the truth or not. Neither, I suspect, do they. But ... if one could speak with someone who saw this for themselves, that would be of interest." Her gaze grows intent. "What it would mean - Men and women who love power will not easily be parted from it, no matter what they had to do to retain it."

Mikkan leans forward so that both his forearms are on the table, his question asked eagerly: "But how, Lady-how do I do that? I do not command them-how do I make men loyal to me if I don't command them?"

"They will not give up power, no. Not even if their god is dead. Yet...it is said Gondor is now ruled by a great necromancer."

"Give loyalty first," Farielle counsels him with words surely heard from her father and brothers a decade and more ago. "You are not too young to command; I have seen younger. But as you have yet few men; you must give them reason to serve you. You yourself, not simply because your father or Lady Azradi ordered them to. And to do that, they must see in you a man worthy of following." She smiles. "And men talk. Never think they do not." She doesn't say anything about Gondor, not yet.

"I will, yes," Mikkan says, taking this all in eagerly and nodding his understanding. "Askar has asked me to calm the Farside loyalists who are left-he says they trust me. And beyond the tower, even-Gondorians in the city, even. I can try...I think. I can think of a way, perhaps. But it will play into Askar's hands."

"Think of what soldiers respect. Regular soldiers, those in the ranks. They will follow a man they can respect." Farielle nods. "And a man they can trust - trust not to betray them, trust to repay loyalty with loyalty."

"Do not worry about Lord Askar for now. You will be doing what he has asked you to do. And, after all," Her smile twists a little. "Do we not also desire the murders to cease? They are my people too."

"All right." Mikkan nods slowly, taking his time to consider what Farielle has said. "If he rules by fear, then the way to win over that is to be strong enough to overcome him-so that people will not be afraid to join you. But it will be slow to build."

Farielle nods. "Fear has power, never doubt it. But there are other things that are greater than fear."

"Truly? Loyalty and honor? Is that what you are saying? My father was a man of honor-he always said that it was important," Mikkan says."He was loyal to the King-I know that. But...greater than fear?" He sounds skeptical.

The lady nods again. "Loyalty, and honor. And love," she says. "Ask yourself - for whom, or what, would you face something you greatly feared?"

Mikkan stares, the question settling him further back in his seat, his mouth open. Then, abruptly, he shuts it, jawline set hard. "For my father."

"Yes." Farielle says no more, leaving the boy to work it out.

"Should you like a book to take with you, back to Farside Tower?" she asks him.

"What?" Mikkan blinks. "Oh..oh, yes, thank you. Would you suggest something?"

The lady rises and walks to the bookshelves. Over her shoulder, somewhat humorously, she says, "I assume you would not most prefer a volume of love poems... What of this?" She takes a small, thick book from the shelf and hands it to him. On its cover, in faded, spidery writing, are the entirely innocuous words: A Study of the Arts of FireBreathing.

"I suppose...well, thank you, yes," Mikkan says, the dubious twist of his lips as he reads the title replaced by a polite answer. He scrapes his chair back and stands, clutching the book to his chest. "I should get back," he says. "I have to figure out what to do...thank you again."

"You are very welcome here, Mikkan," Farielle says, smiling as if she understands the thoughts going through his mind just at that moment. "Please come whenever you wish. I hope you enjoy the book."

"Thank you," Mikkan says. Reaching the doorway, he pauses, hand on the knob but the door not yet opened. "Lady Farielle," he says, turning back to look at her. "Umbar is your home now?"

Obliquely, Farielle - having already started back to her own book - looks up and answers, "Umbar has been my home for nine years."

"I see." Mikkan says just that, then opens the door and leaves.


	12. Do You Know Where Ramio Is?

_**Author's Note: Please Read our Author Profile! This is a work of Role-Play collaberation, and there is a lot of story context outside of these chapters. :) If you'd like to participate, you can connect with us at using the link provided in the profile.**_

_July 20, 3019_

_Ramio's Book Shop_

_The shelves remain, towering to the ceiling and close enough together than only one man can fit between them. But the books are gone. A few useless odds and ends remain to litter the empty room – a sheet of paper in the corner, a small ball of string half-unwound, some broken quills, a wad of wax. On the wall behind the desk the outlines of three scimitars and a long dagger. Ramio, unwilling to trust his safety to the intermittent protection of passing guards, and apparently not trusting his own swords, has fled._

* * *

Teenan is poking disconsolately around the room, rather as if he hopes to find the vanished bookseller hiding under a shelf, and things will magically return to normal. Finally, with a glum look, he turns towards the door to leave.

But the doorway is blocked, the morning light casting the long shadow of Karasor through the frame. A breeze flutters in his black scarf, revealing a hard frown, as he takes in the scant nature of the shop.

"You, boy," He says, looking down at Teenan. "What is this?" He sweeps a motion to the shop, devoid of Ramio, or his wares.

Teenan stops, taking a step backwards in surprise. "I don't know," he says, shocked into telling the truth. "I came here this morning and – and it was like this."

"Ramio," Karasor says, striding over the empty bookshelves, and using a single finger to daw a line in the dust that has settled there. Something else is muttered very quietly, 'ere his head snaps back towards the boy again, eyes narrowing.

"You are Teenan," He says, as if this fact was only just now apparent. "When was the last time you saw him, Ramio?"

"How did you know?" Teenan demands, suddenly alarmed. Now that Karasor is out of the way, he edges towards the door.

"I didn't. I haven't. I don't know – a week or something ago, maybe." He opens the door and hovers on the threshold. "What do you want? A book?"

A voice clears behind Teenan, a shadowy form of a woman appearing outlined in the doorway behind the young slave boy. The presure of her hand on Teenan's back is a voiceless request for him not to step on her. She's dressed as many of the woman of Umbar, her robes covering all but a set of jeweled fingers and the draped fabric over her head and across her eyes leaving all to the imagination save a set of dark eyes.

Her soft voice hums under the veiling fabric, "Watch yourself, boy." A clank of hidden bangles under a long sleeve and she offers Karasor a simple nod as she replies simply, "Last most of us saw of Ramio was a couple days ago."

Karasor does not answer the boy's demanded question. Instead, he replies, his tone as dry as the desert: "No, I wanted a jar of colored salts, boy." There is something short about him, today. "Of course I came for a book."

But the light jingling of bangled jewelry draws his attention then, as does the words of the woman it belongs to. "And?" Karasor asks, a wide sweep of his arm about the empty shop serving to finish the question for him.

Teenan flushes and says hotly, "I was just … " when the woman's hand stops him. He turns to see who is speaking, eyes widening a little, and mutely steps out of the doorway.

"Some of the priests were forcing Ramio to keep a list of anyone who bought any books they thought were … 'inappropriate reading material'." The woman's dark eyes narrow as she looks lifts her gaze to study the abandoned walls, "And he was charged with handing over this list to them. It doesn't take much intelligence to know what they wanted with a list of names like that."

Another soft shimmer of bracelents sounds from beneath her robes and a ringed hand shifts in a gesture that becomes a shrug as she returns her dark stare to Karasor. "Ramio was an intelligent man, and he chose not to keep such a list. He was threatened for these actions. The last any of us in this area saw of Ramio was but two days ago when a priest came to threaten him. There was some ruckus, and if not for those of Seaward and Farside stopping that priest – I fear he migh have been dragged off then." Glancing about the shop, the woman shakes her head slowly. "And after that … well, Ramio is not a stupid man." A flicker of a ringed hand gestures to the shadowed mark where the man's weaponry once hung on the wall.

Is the jangling and clinking of the woman's jewelry really so distracting? It would seem so, by the way that Karasor's eyes follow the movements of her ringed hands as they move about in their gestures. "Ramio is not an idiot, indeed." He assents, gaze only flickering to Teenan for a brief moment before returning.

A hand slides over the shelf, one last time. "Yes," He repats, mostly to himself, though making no effort to speak in a lowered tone: "Ramio is very much not an idiot."

And then he, too, turns towards the door.

"But he ought to have told them!" Teenan says half angrily, half arrogant. "We need to know who is against us so that we can protect the city!" He is clearly parroting someone else's words. And then, with dismissive contempt, "He was just scared."

With a shift and a soft clank of the jewlery she wears, the woman steps to one side, clearing the doorway for Karasor with a slight nod of her head. Perhaps she recognizes him from his other trips to this store… "We? Silly slave. Licking at your master's dirty feet." She speaks the word in her softly lilting voice and lifts a single over adorned finger to point at Teenan. "Sent by your masters to sniff around and learn what happened then? Yes. Ramio was a wise man indeed."

But, once his eyes have left the jewelry, Karasor does not look at it again — or the woman. Pausing near the portal, the man casts another shadow as he leans over Teenan, crowding him up against an empty shelf with a cold squint.

"One can cultivate a healthy fear." He says, words falling down like marbles onto ice, before he turns once more, and steps quietly out into the street.

"My mistress isn't filthy!" Teenan's voice rises in fury. "How dare you say that! How /dare/ you?" The sudden rush of anger has come unexpectedly swiftly and strong – oddly so. Abnormally so. He leans towards the woman, his face contorted and is about to yell something else when Karasor shoves him into a shelf by his passing.

The vieled woman's dark eyes stare at Teenan silently, her expression as Karasor pushes the child against the shelf hidden but for the single lift of a brow. Her head tilts to watch the man step out onto the street. She takes a few measured steps, a dark hand touching the doorframe as she pauses to look back at Teenan. "I dare." That's her simple soft reply. "You are just a slave, after all. Your mistress's type?" A ringed hand flickers back to the shop behind her. "Drives away men loyal to Umbar like Ramio. More will follow his steps, until there is no Umbar worth having if things continue as they are."

Just a slave. For a bare breath of a moment, off-balance from Karasor's interruption, Teenan looks lost. Then he straightens, pushing himself away from the shelf, and says loftily, "My mistress needs me." There is a strange look in his eyes now, as if he is under a spell, but fervently, he goes on. "She /loves/ me."

"I'm sure she does love you." The woman comments as she steps onto the street with soft scratch of her slippers upon first the step and then the stone. "Just like a pet. A pet you put out of it's misery when it becomes sick or a burden." Her dark eyes fix on Teenan once more before she says, "Remain useful, boy, if you wish to remain alive."

The echo of fawning devotion doesn't fade from Teenan's face, but perhaps somewhere beneath it a little seed of uncertainty is planted. "She took care of me," he answers stubbornly, "When I hurt myself."

"A minor injury – wasn't it?" The woman pauses to look Tenaan over with her quiet stare. "But should you lose use of an arm. A leg. You cease to be beautiful or become sickly. When strength leaves your frame and you begin to age." A weighted silence follows her words and she gestures pointed at the collar, "She may not even do you the honor of sacirficing you if you're still worth enough to sell and apply the profits for a new young one."

Somewhere, surely, deep inside the boy, terror and doubt must struggle, but none of this shows. None of it even makes it to where Teenan is aware of it. He simply shakes his head in complete negation. "She loves me. And – " His eyes darken and his voice softens, in thrall. "I love her."

The shirring jingle of jewlery shudders under the cloth of her robes, and the dark eyed woman shakes her head slowly at Teenan's thrall-ish love. "The lies we tell ourselves are the most beautiful – aren't they?" She turns, slowly walking away from the shop, "Until they turns and eat us alive."

Teenan stares after her, frowning. Then he shakes himself, as if he'd just climbed out of the water, and leaves – no doubt going to tell his mistress that Ramio cannot be found.


	13. By Water and Blood

**Author's Note: Please Read our Author Profile! This is a work of Role-Play collaberation, and there is a lot of story context outside of these chapters. :) If you'd like to participate, you can connect with us at using the link provided in the profile.**

_Please bear with us on this chapter, if it seems long or confusing. There were a lot of writers and characters in this 'scene'._

_July 21, 3019_

_The Harbor of Umbar_

_Long piers run out into the gentle water of the bay – the high cliffs of the headlands rising up on either side. There are numerous ships at dock here – sleek, black-sailed Corsairs; fat-bellied merchants – and among them, smaller vessels. Fishing boats, sailing boats, finely painted yachts with brilliant sails clearly owned by the wealthy and noble. The harbormaster's office sits squarely in front of the gates into the city – all commerce in and out is checked to be sure the appropriate taxes have been paid._

_A canal fills a giant cistern here – from whence ships may replenish their stores of fresh water. The overflow runs into the bay itself._

* * *

The wind is from the south, stiff gusts that raise the sea outside the harbor to whitecaps. And out there, tacking against the wind as they sail south, are the ships sighted a little while earlier, growing larger. There is a bustle as of an anthive disturbed at the harbor itself – some simply seem to be here to gawk; others arrive at a run, strapping on weapons; a few others, shipmasters and the like shout conflicting orders at their crew, uncertain whether to try to run, hide, or simply wait and hope that this fleet is not coming with mayhem on its mind.

A cluster of people from Seaward Tower come towards the wharfs – the Regent is there, and the Lady Farielle, as well as a small, but stout selection of guardsmen. Nearby, the current squabbling claimants for Desert and Flame Towers argue. Only a few words drift far enough for others to hear, and the Regent lifts his chin haughtily and ignores them, settling his chain of office about his shoulders and checking the hang of his sword.

The sailors on the lead ship are pulling sail to slow their vessel as they approach the harbor, the other ships behind them following suit. A group of figures at the bow stand and watch the activity on the dockside as they near. A little taller than the rest, Candamon stands slightly apart from them surveying the gathering crowd as if picking out every detail of the confused activity. He bears a bow (unstrung) and quiver at his back, and he is smiling.

A detachment of soldiers from Farside Tower, primarily armsmen with a sprinkling of Black Paladins, pushes its way toward the dockside. A cluster of Farside nobility and Tower officials in the middle of the wedge is led by Tower Lord Askar Kharanid, whose traditionally dour expression looks harder than usual. He's talking animatedly to the two leaders of his guard force, one from Farside and the other a Servant with a scimitar. From the directions he's pointing and his other gestures, he seems to be giving orders for fallback positions and routes of withdrawal. Askar does not seem to trust the fleet's intentions, at any rate.

But he did bring civilians: stewards, diplomats, and the like. Hope for the best, plan for the worst. He barks at a few the runners carrying weapons, "By the Eye and Farside Tower , do not attack first." Sighing, he says to one of his lieutenants, "I hoped we'd have more time."

Also bearing the colors of Seaward is an attachment of rough looking individuals with the look of the seas to their faces and clothes. Each of them bears a scimitar at their side, and stand at attention in silent formation. In front of them stands a woman of average height – her curly black hair pulled into a queue atop her head as she stands with arms crossed under her chest and gleaming eyes watching the lead ship.

The long coat she wears snaps in the wind off the seas, and one delicate hand fingers the pommel of the weapon strapped at her waist. Isabis' eyes meet that of the smiling Candamon for a moment, but her thick contralto voice carries little further than those closest to her as she address the men behind her. "The lines of where we stand are no longer crystal, are they…."

The Regent lifts a hand, clearly with the same meaning as Askar's words: Do not attack. Farielle has taken time to dress in her most formal clothes, and her own chain of office hangs about her neck as well – and as always, she is veiled. Sheer fabric hangs over her face, so that not even her eyes can be seen.

One of the guards behind Isabis coughs and shifts, his hand white-knuckled on the sword that he obediently does not draw. "Wonder what they want?" he says aloud.

Dinadir spent most of the voyage on the upper deck taking in the view for the most part. The tall cloaked and hooded figure however at the sight of shore moves forward a bit more to keep a closer watch on what's happening. It seems for the moment that they will wait it out a bit longer.

Out in the harbor, a party is transferring from the lead ship to a smaller, rowed vessel that has come alongside. Those manning it hold it steady as figures, some mailed and some in silks, clamber down ladders of rope to the deck of that boat–some smaller ones are instead handed down, with one short and stout figure among them wriggling and protesting in a gruff voice that carries over the chop of the waves to the dockside. Candamon, looking down from the railing, laughs and calls, "Do not struggle so, or they may drop you!," his voice clear though likely too far away to be understood by those on land.

"They're coming in!" It is a voice, hard with tension.

Sniffing once at the question posed by the guard behind her, Isabis shifts backwards a step. "I'm not sure, but I've gone nose to nose and sword to sword with their knights atop a rolling deck upon the waves often enough to know this…" The woman pulls a flask from inside her cloak as she speaks, uncapping it with a quick twist of her fingers. "They tend to lean more towards mercy than vengance if they're in a good mood."

Flicking the flask in her fingers, she swings it up, knocking back a swig of something that must be particularly strong by the way she squints as it goes down. Covering her mouth, Isabis coughs twice then sucks air between her teeth as she recaps the flask. "Let's hope they're in a good mood, eh? Or we'll be dancing a dance of steel before the sun settles."

"Wouldn't mind a bit of a dance." There is a laugh, but it sounds like it is fueled by bravado, and someone else says, more quietly, "There's too many of them."

The Regent of Seaward waits, glancing around himself once to see who is there – which of his peers and fellow-lords – then standing straight and tall before his men. If he is afraid, there is no sign of it.

The breeze tugs at Farielle's dress and veil – the sheer cloth hiding all expression. She does take one step sideways, perhaps to see better.

The dwarf (for it appears as the boat nears that the shorter, protesting figure who now stands, grumbling, legs carefully planted against the rocking of the deck, is a dwarf) has been settled securely among what look to be a contingent of Swan Knights. The sailor's backs bend as they row toward the pier where the largest group of people in arms, the Regent, Isabis, and Askar among then, stand. Candamon resumes his place on the rail of the lead ship as the tall, blue-cloaked and dark-haired man standing at the boat's bow raises his hand and calls to them, "Hail the shore!"

On the leading ship, another appears at the rail beside Candamon — a youthful man, or a manly youth, bright-eyed and stern-faced, clad in the Blue trappings of the Swan. "I see that a welcoming party has been arranged." Brethedil comments, inclining his head, and peering keenly at the shore that they approach.

The Farside contingent, with quite a few Servants of Sauron militant, otherwise known as Black Paladins, among their ranks, quietly waits. Under the orders of Askar's lieutenants, the Farside armsmen have formed into a box formation. Inside the box are most of the nobles and Tower servants. In front of the box, though, and flanked by about a dozen black paladins, are Askar Kharanid's most trusted, honored, or perhaps expendable advisors and allies.

The pier seems to collectively hold its breath for a moment. Realizing he is arguably the most senior Umbar statesman present – never mind how his recent his ascent to power! – Askar takes a few steps forward. Rather than immediately reply, he orders the nearest sailors and dockworkers to prepare to receive the approaching craft.

Only then does he call out in a loud voice that reverberates without seeming to exert itself, "Hail, men of Gondor! On behalf of the Tower Lords of the City, I welcome you." His face is blank. He's known too many fall to Gondor to smile at their approach.

"Exactly. Too damn many of them. If things go sour, everything will be about damage control boys. And your wanting to dance…." Isabis smirks as she flips her head back to look at the men while tucking the flask away in her coat once more. "That's why the captain put a woman in charge of you. At least I can control my urges to maim and destroy."

Her warm, deep voice drips with sarcasm as she smirks all the wider, "Besides, I can take any of you in combat. So don't make me tan your rump like your mother for getting rowdy with the Gondos." It's a comment that earns Isabis a snicker from some of the men and a low wolf whistle as she turns her back to them again. Cocking a hip out and rolling her eyes to the sky at the sound, she shakes her head, but her attention turns to the nearest boat rowing to the pier. As Askar steps forward to greet the men of Gondor, she lifts her hand in a signal for the men in her charge to follow her lead. Then she snaps to attention with a clink of boot against boot, her chin lifting proudly under the sweltering glow of the Umbar sun as her dark eyes flash.

The Regent, with a glance of annoyance, steps forward also, lifting his own voice to echo Askar's greetings. Whether he is sincere or not, he is a good politician.

And Farielle is perfectly still, frozen in place almost.

Among those in the front of Askar's group is a young man of about 15 or 16 years. Though he is dressed Southron style, with a sash across his linen tunic in the colors of Farside, his features mark him from all others in the group: pale skin, sea grey eyes, dark hair.

And, as Askar steps forward to greet the delegation, Mikkan–who is staring unbreakingly at the arriving group–steps forward as well. This puts him shoulder to shoulder with Askar–but the young man seems not even to notice for a moment–and when he does, it is to blink and whisper something to Askar.

A chuckle rises from the men behind Isabis, and they too snap to attention.

"Or has assembled itself. I think half the city must be there!" Candamon's reply to Brethedril rides a half laugh. Then, his attention drawn by Askar's calling his reply, he turns his head slightly and narrows his gaze, fixing on Askar as he stands in front of the quiet and disciplined formation. The smile leaves his face, replaced by an expression that is still and intent. He turns his head and looks at Dinadir.

The greeting has not fazed the Gondorian at the bow of the boat, though, who drops his hand as he replies, "Well met! I am Cilinor Cirdain of Dol Amroth, ambassador to the Lords of the Towers and people of Umbar from Elessar, King of Gondor and Anor. I lead an embassy from the king and from the free peoples of the northern lands to those of the city. May we come ashore to give our greetings?""

"Gondor…" The whisper goes through the crowd at this verification of what everyone already knew by the sails.

"King – Is that that necromancer?"

"Ele…what did he say?"

"If that is indeed half their number, we should be so fortunate." Comes Brethedil's reply to Candamon, hands tight in their grasp of the rail, and stormy grey gaze narrowed upon the small figures that buzz about on the shore like a hive of agitated bees.

But silence befalls him, for the time being, as Cilinor gives greetings on behalf of their party.

Without hardly waiting for a pause after Cilinor speaks, the Regent steps one pace further forward and answers, "Welcome. You may come safely to shore." He turns his head and murmurs something to a young man standing beside him, who nods and takes off at a run back into the city.

Tilting his head to the side to listen to Mikkan for a moment, Askar shakes his head once, saying something softly in return, giving the Regent the opportunity he has seized to speak first. His expression at the Regent of Seaward's interruption is a mere raised eyebrow. But his face turns blank again as he looks back to the Gondorians' spokesman. "I am Askar Kharanid, Lord of Farside Tower, Captain of the Black Paladins of the Servants of the Eye." He pauses for a moment. "As ambassador, you and your party are welcome." He says nothing of Gondor, Arnor, Elessar, or King. "Quarters will be arranged." He glances at the young man of Seaward that went dashing off. No doubt they are being arranged already. "On behalf of Farside Tower, may I say we are honored by your presence."

A chilling shriek rises from the crowd and there's a flutter of movement as both men and women, young and old, move out of the way of a single, small woman who seems to part the crowd before the docks like a wave. Black hair is piled high atop her her head in an intiricate head dress, and she wears the black and red robes of the priesthood. Her stature is small, and if her face weren't painted with wild red smooshes, she would be almost plain.

That, however, is not what makes the crowd shrink from her. Hanging from her small dark skinned hand is a black knife that slowly drips blood. The blood of a single body that lies in the path behind her. A slave – one that's dressed exactly the same as a couple others who scurry along behind her – seeming at odds as to whether to grab the priestess and pull her back – or stay quite for away from that sacrificial knife.

It seems, perhaps unfortunately, that she managed to hear some portion of the welcoming greetings, for her dark eyes flash wildly as she points an accusing red-clawed hand at the Gondor boat and lifts her voice in a shout, "You are NOT welcome in the land of our Lord Sauron!" The woman's hands come up and the already bloody knife flashes in the light as she bares an arm. The point of the knife fixes on her wrist, and she draws it slowly down her own arm, blood pouring freely as she cust her own flesh. "I curse you in his power!" It's only now that one of her servant's get to her, and she struggles against their hands as they try to pull her back – to stop her blood letting. One is a young slave girl, already with a nasty cut across her face, as she grabs the woman's hand, "Please, Priestess Kamaria! You must stop!"

Licking her painted lips, Isabis hisses a breath in between her teeth as she watches the interplay between her tower's regent and Askar. The woman, in fact, watches that pair more closely than she watches the Gondor delegation, a spring-like tension singing in her muscles as she continues to stand at attention. Still, it's hard to ignore the ruckus that priestess of the Black Tower causes, and Isabis shifts backwards, her hand settling on her scimitar's pommel in readiness.

"Ah, yes, I see you were right," Mikkan answers, speaking low to Askar. "But perhaps it might be useful later on. And I can…" The youth's words trail off at the entering spectacle of Kamaria–he glances first to the men of Gondor to judge their reaction, then quickly to Askar to note the same. His hand strays to the hilt of his sword, and he continues to Askar, "what was that about those in the right being wrong again?"

There is a pressure backwards, a swaying of the crowds of bystanders – away from Kamaria.

The Lady Farielle neither moves nor flinches at the priestess's crazed yells behind her. She murmurs something to the Regent, who gives her a look of dislike, but after a moment, nods.

Cilinor shifts his gaze to the Regent. Too practiced to react to what appears to have been a momentary usurpation, he acknowledges the Regent with the bow and then Askar with a shallower nod. Signaling to the boats crew, he replies "We thank you for your offer, Lord Askar. Perhaps we should all meet together first before we decide upon quarters–" Lines are being tossed to waiting hands on the pier and made fast, and the Gondorians are moving to disembark when the shriek and the clamor of the crowd erupt. In a moment, Cilinor, still on the boat, has stepped back, calling out, "Hold! What is this?" as the Swan Knights surge forward to stand in front of him. The Gondorian stares up at the pier, looking between Askar and the Regent.

Blood, cries, calamity. Brethedil visibly bristles, his shoulders rising. If he were a beast with a mane, it would surely stand on end — but as a man, only the dark locks at the nape of his neck perk.

But that is hardly the extent of his reaction. As the Swan Knights crowd to the prow of the boat, the squire is there with them, his face screwed into a fiery twist. "-This- is the diplomacy of this forsaken land." He spits, a hand twitching to the pommel at his side.

And yet, amid the turmoil, his eyes stray onto one figure on the shore in particular — Mikkan, the youth that bears such strange resemblance to himself. The gaze remains locked there, for a moment.

The Regent smiles a little. It doesn't reach his eyes. "The worship of the Eye has … strange effects on some." His tone also is entirely uninflected.  
"Well, Mikkan, there is wrong," Askar raises first five fingers, then one finger, forms a fist with his hand, moves it in a circle, and points at Kamaria. "-and there is wrong." Immediately six of his black-robed guards with medallions bearing the symbol of the Eye break off from their formation behind him and go racing towards Kamaria to try to physically hold her back. "This is the latter." He calls a command to one of his lieutenants, and half of his Farside armsmen begin marching towards the end of the pier, to prevent Kamaria from physically reaching the Gondorians.

Askar calls to the pier, "Forgive the interruption, Lord Cilinor. I'd ask that you stay in your boats for a moment. There appears to be a misunderstanding." With that, Askar turns and begins walking towards the pier himself. While he faces the Gondorians, his expression is empty. When he is facing the reeling crowd and Kamaria herself, his face is a mask of carefully controlled rage.

The Squire's stare is returned–one pair of grey eyes connecting across the distance with another as Mikkan turns his attention that way. A smile slowly curls just one corner of his lips, and then ever so subtly, he nods his head.

But this distraction does not last–Askar's movement draws Mikkan's attention away and after a moment's hesitation he trots after the man. And yet, Mikkan does not take a place next to Askar to stand against the priestess. Those who might note such details would see he gives that particular confrontation a wide berth, and instead he stands nearer to the ship of the north.

The priestess may be short in stature, but Kamaria's certainly long in anger. Fighting off the hands of her own servants, she kicks one in the shins. The girl grasping her arm gets a sound crack against her jaw with the hilt of the dagger, which the tiny woman returns to her arm to continue cutting. Her lips move methodically as she whispers dark syllables in a foul language that only a handful in the crowd understand. Blood – her blood begins to pool silently around her feet as it runs down her arm and over her robes to drip slowly upon the ground.

The woman practically snarls, her teeth flashing as one of the black-robed guards grabs her shoulder, and she lifts the arm with the knife in it to seemingly smash him in his nose. It never happens as the arm holding the dagger is grabbed by another of the guards. Though she struggles, it's plain to see how small and relatively powerless she is next to the six men who grab her arms and pull her backwards away from the delegation. "Unhand me at once!" She gasps, still bleeding rather profusely as she tries to twist away to no avail.

Watching the servants of the Eye pull back their own, Isabis snorts once, her fingers twitching on the pommel of her blade as she turns to her men and makes a calming gesture with the palm of her hand. Her lips twist in a smirk as she says quietly to the one nearest her, "Moments like this make you glad you're Seaward, doesn't it?"

"Aye." The man doesn't smile in return, only watches the Gondorians and frowns. "What'd you think they're after, then?"

Cilinor does not appear to be any more amused than the Regent, whose gaze he now catches and holds. "Forgive me, my lord," he calls, voice loud enough to carry even above the din, "for my blunt address, but it appears I must first confirm whom among you is able to assure me that my embassy will be safe and able to treat on *neutral* ground before we come ashore. Can you so pledge?" On the landing boats, the sailors bend over the lines tying them to the pier, knives drawn and eyes on the lord of Dol Amroth. Theirs are the only blades visible; even the dwarf watches Cilinor, waiting for his signal.

In the harbor behind him, voices call back and forth between the ships of the Gondorian fleet. Sailors have begun to pull on the yards, and figures are now lining the rails in what looks to be ordered formation. Candamon is still at the bow of the flagship, and his bow is now in his hand.

"Sir," the Regent responds. "I am Regent of Seaward Tower in trust for my Lord, Lady Eruphel. I have sent to prepare lodgings for you in the Palace. I will pledge what of my men remain to secure your safety there." He looks over at Askar, and then to the would-be lords of the other towers, challenging them to meet his offer.

The two claimant-lords of Desert waver, scowling, and then say with a distinct lack of graciousness, "We also. None of ours shall break the Lords' Peace."

There is no curl in Brethedil's lips, as Mikkan nods at him across the water — his are pressed together in a hard line, and his gaze trails the other youth's movements for several moments after their interaction is broken.

But there are other distractions for him as well, and his knuckles are tight about his hilt, and his words carry heavily to the eldar, Candamon, at his side. "Listen to the Lord Cirdain," He barely withholds a scoff. "What pledge could be given in any faith? There is no Law, here — see how they spill blood as a carpet of welcome before our very feet." The other hand gestures wildly at the confrontation on the shore.

Askar continues to where the pier meets the shore, seeing that his guards have succeeded in pulling Kamaria back. Rather than moving after her, he turns and walks down the pier, to where he will be immediately adjacent to the Gondorian sailors. He walks down to where he he is face to face with the Sea Knights clustered around Cilinor, addressing the man of Dol Amroth past them. "I so pledge the soldiers of Farside, as well. What is more, I pledge a Black Paladin to accompany each senior member of your delegation when you leave the Palace, to avoid any future … unpleasantness."

"Your safety was never in question, Lord Cilinor," the Tower Lord says. He glances back. He can no longer see where the puddle of the priestess's blood is. He clasps his hands behind his back, his steel vambraces making a soft rasp as they rub against each other. "Her own safety was rather at issue. These have been trying times for us all, as I'm sure you understand." Askar's formation of guards, attendants, and Paladins, down at the end of the pier, look incredibly tense at their Lord's presence among the Gondorians without any retinue.

Unasked and likely uninvited as well, Mikkan moves so taht he is closer now to where Askar stands. He is close enough to hear what is said, but not so audacious as to make himself a part of that little circle.

Farielle steps forward now, walking also towards the Gondorians. Two guardsmen follow her, each looking extremely formidable. As she nears, the lady stops and lifts her hands to put her veil aside, revealing her features for the first time. Her very Gondorian features. For those of Dol Amroth, there can be no doubt of her house: Girithlin. "This, you may trust," she says to Cilinor. "The Lords' Peace is that none will attack while the business of ruling the city is at hand. The Palace is neutral ground where all the Tower Lords may meet in safety, with none taking precedence over another."

Looking out to the Gondor fleet at the query of her man, Isabis narrows her eyes before replying softly, "What they've always wanted, most likely. But now, perhaps, they hope to get it by baiting us with honey rather than vinegar." Shrugging her shoulders then, she settles one of her hands on the arm of the man she speaks so quietly to. "Whatever comes, I have only one goal. Another dawn. Worry about little else."

Meanwhile, Kamaria's dragged backwards deeper into the crowd by her newest guardians who seem to be amply more prepared to deal with her than her poor, hapless slaves. It's not long until all that's left of her anger is a splash of blood upon the ground and a hole in the crowd at that point – where no one's quite willingly to step.

The man nods once to Isabis, sharply, starts to say something and then stops. "Aye," he says at last. "Another dawn."

Candamon's own expression is (uncharacteristically) hard as polished stone, but his voice remains level as he tells Brethedil, "Be still." His gaze is not on the struggles around the priestess or even on the Regent who now speaks, though, but is fixed on Askar as that lord returns to the head of the pier.

Cilinor dips his head to the Regent in acknowledgment. "My lord Regent, we accept the Lord's Peace with gratitude and pledge our own as well. For, peace is why we come to you." Behind him, the sailors visibly relax and sheath their daggers. "If your harbormaster would go out to direct our ships to berth, we will go to our lodgings with thanks. We have goods to offload as well, gifts from Gondor and Anor and its king to the lords and the people–" he pauses for a sliver of a breath as Farielle reveals her face, then finishes "–of Umbar."

He bows to Askar, Farielle, and the other lords. Behind him, a guttural voice from just below chest-height gives a single, sharp "Huh."

The Lord of Farside Tower nods, and waves a hand. One of his armsmen runs off, no doubt to fetch the Harbormaster. He returns the bow with one of precisely equal depth. "We appreciate your and your lord's generosity, Lord Cilinor." He returns the bow with one of precisely equal depth. "The gift is the blessing of the giver."

Askar steps to the side of the pier and raises his right arm to gesture up the pier and towards the City. "It would be to my honor if you would accept my escort to the palace. I will arrange palanquins for the nobles among you, should you wish. I doubt you are accustomed to the sun here."

Even as he is chided by a stony-faced Candamon, Brethedil's mouth snaps shut, but his own visage is one of a kettle left several minutes too long over the fire — steaming, and prepared to whistle at any moment.

And yet, the same firm jaw comes to hang ever-so-slighty agape as Farielle's face is revealed. Even from a distance, there is no mistaking the features of the north. Miraculously, the youth maintains his silence, for now.

It is at this point that Mikkan moves forward again, coming once more to stand aside Askar. He does so in time to catch the exclamation of surprise as Farielle removes her veil–and this draws a full smile from him now–in contrast, notably, to his own quietly contemplative reaction to her stepping forward. "It seems," he says to Askar, "that the Lady has rather shocked at least some aboard the ships."

The faintest frown, barely even a visible expression, hardens the Seaward Regent's face as Askar beats him to offering an escort. But he offers a bow of his own, in answer to those from the Gondorian delegation. "We shall be glad to escort your men to the Palace," he assures Cilion.

Squeezing the man's arm, Isabis meets his eyes, giving him a nod at his reply. "Regent. Lady Farielle." Isabis speaks softly as she releases her man's arm and takes a step up to join the two nobles. Lowering her head in a bob of her curly hair, she says, "I have the best men of my crew with me – they are trained men of the sea." Her dark gaze lifts to meet Cilinor's as she addresses him with a level stare, "And familiar with the needs of a ship and crew. If I might suggest a guard to watch over your ships and crew in port as well?"

Farielle looks to one side at Isabis, and nods slightly, before saying to the Regent in an undertone, "I think that wise, Lord Regent. Shall I give the order?"

The same look of annoyance and dislike crosses the Regent's face as he is interrupted thus, but he nods – if brusquely – and returns his attention to Askar and Cilion. The other lords – or would be lords – hover in the background.

Candamon looks down at Brethedil, his smile returning. "Well, it appears we will be visiting the city after all. Come–" he returns his bow to this back and steps away from the rail "–let us move to collect our gear." Oddly, he appears not to have noticed Farielle; in fact, his smile and his gaze both seem distant.

Having gained the pier along with the first of the company of knights, Cilinor dips his head to Isabis. "Thank you, that is wise. We will be sure to set a guard and would welcome some support – in case of the unexpected. My lord Regent, we are ready – my party will follow."

The last of the Gondorian embassy is disembarking behind him (the dwarf's voice rising above the others for a moment as he yells, "Unhand me! I can climb a blasted rope!"), while the sails of the ships start to fill with the south wind again in preparation of bringing them in to the docks of Umbar.


	14. An Island of Blue

_**Author's Note: Please Read our Author Profile! This is a work of Role-Play collaberation, and there is a lot of story context outside of these chapters. :) If you'd like to participate, you can connect with us at using the link provided in the profile.**_

_July 23, 3019_

_Umbar: Palace_

_This building is very old; perhaps one of the oldest in the city. There are scenes graven into the marble walls, cunningly contrived so that their colors seem that of the stones themselves – scenes of Numenor of old, of the Ship-Kings meeting the lesser inhabitants of this land, of warriors and rulers, great musicians and poets. One wall has been paneled over with a golden wood – if there was ever an image in the stone behind it, it cannot be seen now._

_Long hallways and wide lead from private apartments to public rooms; from libraries to bowers to solariums – for this was once the private residence of the king. Now it is used for the meetings of the Lords of Umbar and their dignitaries, and the private suites house embassages from other lands, should any arrive._

* * *

Umbar is a strange place in many ways, and this truth is not lessened by the great palace that the contingent from Gondor has found themselves in. While this was once the residence of the king, it has long sense served as more meeting place than comfortable accomodations, and the settling in of the emissaries has been no simple task of simply changing the sheets in the long unused residential halls. Servants and slaves both, loaned from the towers have turned the palace practically on its head in their attempts to make things at least comfortable for the strangers, but even that doesn't alleviate the fact that this place is not truly a royal residence anymore.

Indeed, the vast majority of the guards seem to be either Paladins of the Eye or corsairs. Corsairs that more than a few of the swan knights have met in battle many times in the past. No doubt, some of the knights may even recognize some of the corsairs from the battles of the past on the high seas. An uncomfortable realization at best. Perhaps even more amusing, the Corsairs and the Paladins don't seem to see eye to eye on much – each of the groups having chosen specific rooms to operate out of.

The corsairs seem to have occoupied most of one of the great open halls where once, perhaps, a throne would have sat or great ceremonies were once held. Wooden tables have been hastily set up, and a stream of rough looking men and the occasional woman come in and out for their assignments this morning. They're at least disciplined in this way – if you can ignore the empty bottles of what must have been booze that litter the floor, or their racuous laughter and shouts.

One woman with dark curly hair swinging loosely around her shoulders seems to be quite the task master. Isabis' scmitar flashes as she slap one man smartly on the back of his legs with the flat of her sword as he comes running up to the entrance of the hall. Her brown eyes flash with anger and she bears teeth at him and shouts in loud Haradric, "You're late! Getcher arse inside now, and expect to be written up!"

Corsairs buzzing about in one corner, Paladins shuffling in the other — the sigil of the Swan is an odd one indeed, in this company, even if the setting itself speaks of Numenor long passed.

The stone echoes under the firm footsteps of Brethedil, coming forth from a long wing off to the north. He is trailed closely by an escort, and if their faces are any indication, there is little pleasure in the duty for either of them.

Adding to the confusion of servants, slaves, and guards, a session of meetings between representatives of each Tower and the envoys from Gondor has just let out down another one of the hallways. Aides come pouring out first in the various colors of the Towers and in the customary attire of Gondor, followed by the Gondorian envoys, each with a Black Paladin at his or her heel.

One of the Paladins, with a medallion showing the Eye superimposed over an amethyst tower, is still speaking to Lord Cilinor. On a second look, it's clear that this is Askar Kharanid, Lord of Farside Tower, who is hard to tell apart from the Paladins he captains. Only the medallion and his crimson sash tell him apart from them, who wear black sashes.

Finally he and Cilinor go their separate ways, Askar moving towards the impromptu Black Paladin headquarters, where escorts for the delegation are arranged every day. He notes that only the Farside corsairs seem to be getting along with the Paladins to any degree. He glances into the corsair headquarters as he walks down the hall, smiling a little as the man gets swatted.

The Paladin trailing Brethedil sighs as his charge wanders the halls seemingly at random. Why couldn't he have been assigned to the fat man? he wonders. That one scarcely leaves his rooms.

Another sound slap of her scimitar on the corsair's rump as he hurries past Isabis is all the reward he gets for staring down the hall at the sudden flux of Gondorian envoys and Paladin's pouring down the hallway. "Staring like he's just seen a tower lady's undergarments…." Isabis huffs in her low voice.

With an automatic ease from years of the same motion, her boots snap together the next moment, and her fist holding the scimitar snaps up to rest on her chest in salute for the Lord of Farside. "Morning, Lord Askar." This woman certainly doesn't waste time on flowery words on pleasantries it would seems. Tipping her gaze as she eases into a parade stance, her eyes flicker over those who pass, but she seems to study most intently those who bear the Swan sigil as she eases her scimitar back into its sheathe with a single smooth motion of her arm.

Had Brethedil been moving in the direction of Cilinor? It is of no matter now, as the Cirdain lord is whisked away to many other matters of business. This leaves the tall, young man in a rather lonely position: an island of blue in a sea of red and black. The proud look never leaves him, though, and a deep breath rises from his chest as his eyes lock with the stare so kindly laid upon him by the Corsair woman.

The Tower Lord pauses to acknowledge the corsair's salute with a nod. "Be at ease." He looks about the Corsairs' bustling room. "You seem to be running a tight ship. Your name?" He hears the Gondorian next to him, and glances back towards him.

What his eyes meet is somewhat strange. Instead of Brethedil's Paladin hanging back unobtrusively, he has joined in Brethedil's staring match with Isabis. In the case of the Paladin, though, it's more like a glaring match.

"Step back, Paladin," Askar says to him softly. "We're all friends here." He looks back at Isabis and Brethedil.

"Isabis bint Malik al-Rajan, Quartermaster of the Nimrizan." She replies smoothly in Haradric for Askar even as those gold flecked eyes of hers stare all the more unrepentantly at the squire. The question posed by the man of Gondor brings a curl to her lips as her mouth pulls into a slow smile for Brethedil's benefit.

Clicking her tongue, Isabis replies in a smooth if exotically accented Westron, "Keeping an eye out for old 'acquaintances' from prior battles – who might not remember me as fondly as I do them." Her head tilts a few degrees as her gaze slides to the Paladin next to him, and a flash of gleaming teeth between red lips shows in a split second of a grin as she addresses the Paladin in Westron instead of Haradric – possibly for Brethedil's benefit. "I know I'm gorgeous, but you're going to make everyone jealous, lovey, if you stare too much longer."

The line that has formed between Brethedil's raven brows has grown more pronounced with every word that falls from the Corsair woman's lips, regardless of his capacity to understand them. "Certainly, they shall fondly recall the evening tea shared among ene — friends." He finishes, this correction only coming in light of Askar's comment.

And perhaps in this land, it is Brethedil's voice, colored with the tones of the grey tongue and the north, that is accented. "If friends are wont to leave with their pockets filled with misbegotten gold."

Slowly, the young man's gaze swivels again to Askar, where it pauses. "You are a Lord?"

Cheeks burning at Isabis' commment and the reprimand from his superior, Brethedil's Paladin escort takes a step back and deliberately turns his eyes to a point between the three who are speaking, looking at none of them in particular.

"Your diligence is noted, Isabis." Askar doesn't comment on the interplay between her and the other paladin. "And your caution is commendable. I know it is counter to training, but should any altercation erupt, *try* not to kill anyone. There are enough guards here that any fight should be broken up swiftly." If it doesn't explode like a tinderbox.

He turns to face Brethedil with his whole body, his badges of office hanging on his chest and striping from shoulder to hip, respectively. "I am Askar Kharanid, Lord of Farside Tower," he says. Looking the Gondorian over, he asks speculatively, "And what House of Gondor do you represent?"

"I can take a man down without killing him, Lord." Isabis replies with a smooth flick of a heavily ringed hand. "After all, if I killed every man who angered me – my captain would not have a crew to command. My compatriots, however…."

A single dark brow lifts, and the corsair woman smirks, "Well, I can only vouch for those loyal to Seaward. If they create a problem, I will make their lives a living hell." This statement the curly haired woman punctuates with a swing of her gaze to Brethedil as she slips into Westron once more. "The tea was actaully quite good, but I couldn't help myself…. The coins were just a bit too shiny, you see, and the fighting a bit too fun to pass up on."

The partly closed doors open a little ways up the hall, and the Lady Farielle comes out. During the previous meeting she has only introduced herself as Farielle anAlkhaszor, and has evaded any attempts at personal conversation, remaining reserved and quiet. Her two personal guardsmen, waiting outside the door, fall into place beside and a pace behind her, and she comes down the corridor towards the main entrance. Her steps falter the tiniest bit as she sees people still in the hallway, but she continues as if she will not stop.

"I would ask that in the future you remember to wipe the blood from your boots, when departing," Brethedil's voice crackles with electricity as he answers the Corsair woman, "But I suspect that the days of your tea-hour visits have ended."

The scrutiny of Askar's visual appraisal is met with a straight posture, and an inclined head, from Brethedil. "I am Brethedil Merilion Palanllach-Bragollach the Second," He rattles off, "heir Palanllach, Blue Squire of the Order of the Swan." A very slight squint comes to his eyes, "Farside Tower? And these," A hand indicates the now-silent Paladin that shadows him dutifully, "Are your men?"

Clearly, he has not yet noticed the approach of Farielle.

Askar nods. "I am also Captain of the Black Paladins of the Servants of the Eye," he agrees. "They serve the Eye through obedience to me, but there are men and women of Farside in *there*, too." The Tower Lord jerks a thumb at the room Isabis is managing. "Every Tower has armsmen and corsairs to its name." There is no mistaking the pride in his voice. "I hope sharing tea will no longer be a euphemism, ere long," his tone turning wry.

One of Askar's guards – another Paladin, of course – nudges the Lord and leans close to whisper a few words, upon which Askar turns his head to peer down the hall. He nods to the approaching woman and her guards. "Lady Farielle. I hope you found the proceedings as amenable as I did."

"Sadly, yes, it seems that the afternoon tea parties with your country men are coming to an end…" Isabis sighs and lifts her brow as she looks Brethedil over again, "I, for one, am going to miss play time with you boys. Pity really. You at least look like you'd be fun in a fight."

Isabis' gaze flicks to Askar as he introduces himself, the corner of her brow twitching at the mention of 'The Eye'. Still, she doesn't let that detract from her snapping to attention at Farielle's approach, her fist resting over her heart as she bows subtly deeper to Farielle than she did to Askar. "Lady Farielle."

"Isabis," Farielle says, nodding to the woman.

"Lord Askar. Things went very smoothly, did they not?" If she is reluctant to stop, there is no sign of it. But neither does she speak to Brethedil – who is, after all, facing away from her.

Brethedil's lips part: surely, he intends to speak. But a certain name hangs in the air, that moment, fallen from the mouths of both Askar and Isabis. The Palanllach youth becomes the very picture of surprise as he turns, sea-grey gaze falling upon Farielle in a widened state.

For her, his head is tilted downward, though the motion is still small. "Lady Farielle?" He echoes the others, but there is a hint of an inquiry in the miniscule rise, instead of fall, at the end of his phrase.

"Indeed, my Lady. But I'm afraid the true sticking points lie ahead of us. Recognition, among other things, could prove…. problematic." Askar glances at Brethedil with an expression of concentration, as though the Squire represents the sum of the difficulties Umbar's negotiators are likely to have with Gondor's. "We shall see."

Noting the Gondorian's surprise, the Tower Lord appraises him anew.

The paladin shadowing Brethedil, no longer the object of anyone's attention, begins to glare – more subtly, this time – at Isabis.

Giving Farielle a confident smile as she eases back into parade stance once more, Isabis' eyes flicker from Askar to Brethedil, perhaps a flicker of curiosity registering somewhere in those depths. However, the woman simply can't ignore the glare the Brethedil's paladins accompaniment is giving her, and the corsair woman winks at him – her lips pursing in a kiss kiss fashion as she makes a small gesture with her hand that is both rude and suggestive simotaneously.

Farielle pretends she hasn't seen any of the byplay between Isabis and the paladin, only smiling at the corsair and then turning her attention away. "Yes," she says to the squire. "I am Lady Farielle anAlkaszhor, Steward of Seaward Tower. And you are Brethedil Merilion Palanllach-Bragollach the Second, heir Palanllach, Blue Squire of the Order of the Swan." Perhaps there is the tiniest amount of amusement in her voice as she easily repeats all his names.

"Perhaps," she says neutrally to Askar. "One cannot tell what the future may hold. I admit to some interest as to the details of this proposed arrangement."

A rosy heat burns on Brethedil's cheeks at Farielle's echoing of his self-stated titles. There is a glance, askance, at Askar — and miraculously, the Squire does not immediately demand more infomation, remaining silent for a moment.

A moment, anyway. Isabis' gestures of obscenity directed at the Paladin are met with a scowl of massive proportions from Brethedil. "… ….. .. savage … … respect." He mutters beneath his breath.

The paladin glaring at Isabis turns even redder, putting his hand on his scimitar hilt- then glancing back at Askar, and taking it back off. He seems at a loss about how to regain some honor here.

Askar nods at Farielle's words. "Indeed. Only the Eye sees all. The details of their proposal will be most illuminating." He casts a hard look at Brethedil's guard, intuiting that something is amiss, but not what. His eyebrows rise dramatically as he catches Brethedil muttering about savages, but still says nothing. His back is still to Isabis.

"My Lady, Squire, if you will excuse me, there are pressing matters requiring my attention. I will return at the next meeting of the Lords. Hopefully all the other Towers will have worked out who is to lead them by then." He snorts, then with a polite nod, walks off again in the direction he had started: to the Black Paladins' base of operations within the palace.

Seemingly rather pleased with her accomplishments in getting both the Paladin of the Eye and Brethedil in a twit with her actions, the smile twitching the corners of Isabis' face grows all the wider at the squire's mutterings. Apparently something in what she catches of his words amuses her, and she even nods a couple times as if in agreement, crossing her arms under her chest as she leans back on her heel and watches Askar's departure through her lashes. Annoy two frenemies from opposing forces simotaneously. Another box on the corsair bucket list checked it off it seems!

At Brethedil's flush, Farielle smiles – a friendly smile with no mockery in it. She says nothing to Askar, only nodding as he leaves, and then returns to watching the boy, thoughtfully, it seems. Her two guardsmen, extremely professionally and competently, stand watch.

Brethedil's eyes linger on the retreating form of the tower Lord, and it is not until he has well and truly left their company, that the Gondorian youth speaks again. "Lady Farielle," He says, turning his attention to meet the curious stare that the woman bestows upon him. "Would you give me the honor of your company, for a walk?" He clears his throat, not -entirely- in Isabis' direction, "With your guards-men-, of course."

Smirking at Brethedil's less than subtle implication, Isabis actually chuckles now that Askar's no longer present. Then she quietly address Farielle and her men with a nod, "Lady, you know where to find those loyal to Seaward – should you or any of yours need us." A flick of her eyes as she meets the gaze of both of Farielle's guardsmen, the corsair includes them in her offer of assistance as well. It seems there might be something else in her words, but her glance strays to the black paladin accompanying Brethedil once more, and she closes her mouth.

"I thank you," Farielle says to Isabis, a current of .. something running through her voice. The two guardsmen nod as well. And the lady turns to Brethedil. "Thank you. Shall we walk in the gardens? They are quite old, and beautifully designed. By men of Numenor, I believe…"

There is one thing that Brethedil and Isabis share, and that is a healthy scorn for the unfortunate Paladin that his been assigned as his escort. "I will not require your company for this errand." He says, decisively — but will he get away with it?

Farielle's suggestion is met with as close to a smile as is to pass the young man's face all day. "Yes, that sounds very much to my liking." He answers. A hand sweeps out, an invitation for her to the lead the way.

The paladin stifles a sneer at Brethedil's dismissal, and with a final glare at Isabis, quickly moves away along the hallway – perhaps even somewhat grateful to not have to tag along after the Gondor man. Isabis tips her head in a nod to Farielle, taking a step back into the doorway and leaning against the wall behind her as she resumes her post of watching over the corsair detail assigned to the palace. With a final smirk at Brethedil, the woman says in parting, "Enjoy the gardens."

"This way," Farielle says, turning not towards the main doors, but a smaller, discreetly set into the wall. Opening it, they pass out into the Garden of the Sun, with its ancient mosaics. "You see here," the lady says conversationally, directing attention to the pictures. "I believe these are the ships of the men of Numenor, of long ago. They built this city, you know; or at least built it into what it was. Perhaps there was a fishing village on the site before."

_You leave the palace for Anor Court._

_Umbar: Court of Anor_

_The court here is surely as old as the Court of the Moon, but the mosaic set into the pavements shows more wear. Perhaps the stone used is not so durable. Some pieces are clearly newer – where loose stones have been replaced. But still the design is there – a sun in glory, its rays spreading out to the edges of the court, and dark shapes of men and ships sailing a blue sea._

Brethedil follows, the echo of his footfalls muffled as they finally depart the hall, and enter the garden. Bright eyes examine the mosaics, but he seems reluctant to let his attention stray wholly from the Lady.

"Yes, I know these tales." He says, "Ages passed, since those true sails were seen here." Finally, he tilts his head.

It cannot be helped any longer. "Who are — how, my Lady," Uncharacteristically, he stumbles in this question, quietly. "You bear the mark of the Girithlin."

"Many ages," Farielle agrees. "And this way is the Court of the Moon.." She stops, looking up, her bright blue-grey eyes meeting his darker ones.

"My name is Farielle, as I have told you." A pause – a long one – and almost reluctantly, she continues. "I was … once … of that House."

Brethedil's attention might flit towards the Moon Court they approach, but where Farielle pauses, so does he. There are many strange wonders in the immediate vicinity, and the youth's stormy gaze is large with them — but the stern line of his jaw does not waver.

He, too, lets a small silence stand before he speaks. "When I was a small lad," He says, "I heard tales, of a girl, taken." Now, he is outright just staring at her. "None came for you?" He presses, a subdued indignance peeking through.

Farielle is still another long moment. Then she shakes her head. "No." She lifts one hand, the fingers spread, and looks at it, then drops it to her side again. "No one came."

Lifting her chin slightly, proudly, she says, "That was nine years ago. Perhaps ten. I live in Umbar, now."

"No one came." Brethedil's long-fingered hands are now tights fists, at his sides. Finally, after long moments of boring into the woman's features, he averts his somewhat rude stare back to the mosaics.

"You are a Steward of a tower of Umbar, now?" Her pride is met with a seeming confusion, from him.

"I am," Farielle says. "Does that displease you?"

An older Gondorian, a soldier by his pace and the set of his shoulders, passes along the corridor. He pauses for a moment, browsing the mosaics, but the people within the garden are spared only a moment's notice.

It is a casual, withdrawn moment; then he excuses himself with a brief nod.

"I simply do not understand." Brethedil answers, a furrow in his dark brow, and his frustration bubbling up again. "Has all faith been lost? He is here, now, ten years hence," the Squire says, suddenly waving a hand near his head. "Sir Eruiglas."

If there is a passing of another in the garden, it escapes the young man's sensibilites. Indeed, even her guards are hardly heeded, now.

"What would you have had me do?" Farielle asks him. "Kill myself to escape the degradation of … " A passing figure catches her eye and she glances up casually, and then freezes – whether at the sight, or at the name Brethedil mentions, or some combination of both.

"-Kill yourself-?" Brethedil repeats, downright scandalized. "Never. But…" He pauses, and is successful in collecting his composure. "How can you own this, and partake in the ruling of men best famed for their thirst for our own downfall," Now, indicating the vaster expanses of the city, "When you have once known the sweet rain of Belfalas as your home?"

As she freezes, he turns, gazing curiously at whatever had caught her sight — but he is too late, and sees only the stone art.

A long breath in, and then out again. And Farielle turns to answer him as if nothing has happened. She cannot quite still the trembling of her hands, and so she folds them together, hidden by the fall of her sleeves. "Would it have been more noble to have been sold as a slave?" she asks the boy. "To a brothel? Or to a desert man as his third wife? There was one who wanted me."

"What!? I — " The Squire's head jerks back, and there is a fair amount of guppy-like gaping as he grasps at the air for words. But of course, there are none.

He purses his lips, and stares at the wall, silent.

Farielle's eyes remain on the squire, level, even, remorseless. "Or given as a sacrifice to the Eye," she continues, enumerating her choices in a life suddenly changed nine years ago. "Tell me, Squire, what you would have advised."

Still, the Squire is speechless and without such noble advice as had poured from him but moments ago, each of her reproaches registering with a small twitch of his aquiline nose.

"Sacrifice to the Eye?" A realization falls over Brethedil's proud features with a heavy darkness. "No, it cannot — Lady," Suddenly, he is taken in a fit of agitation, brow twisting and hands tightening at his sides, "How many meet such a fate? Where are they taken?" He is leaning forward now.

"I do not know," Farielle says softly. "Nor would I tell you if I could – No," she says, fiercely forestalling anything he might say. "I do /not/ serve him! But all you would accomplish is adding yourself to their number. The Servants are many, and they are in a frenzy … Tell me. I have heard many rumors. Were you in the fighting? Tell me what you saw." There is a strange urgency to her voice, which until now has been so even and passionless.

Brethedil by no means appears pleased with this answer. He speaks hurriedly. "I fought, beside sir Conalmir Tarikhor, when we traveled north with the Prince. The White City was besieged, there were men, and beasts, and eldar. And the King, and ships, and — " He passes over many details as they fly from his mouth, seemingly disinterested in them, speaking instead on this matter:

"Corsairs sacked the city of Pelargir. In my absence, my young cousin was stolen captive from my father's care." He levels a hard and steely look of resolve upon the woman. "I -must- find him, Farielle."

"I would hear more of this," Farielle says. "Are there any among your company who can tell me of this King, and of the Eye? And I have heard tales of the raising of the dead."

She stills again, but meets his gaze without flinching. "A young cousin? And you believe he was brought here?"

"Of the Eye?" Brethedil repeats, momentarily taken aback. "The dead were not raised, Lady. They were found." As if this were a -much- more reasonable explanation.

"It is the only possibility." The Squire says, his chin-cropped hair swinging lightly as he nods, once. "My father saw him, taken into their arms and dragged away like a -dog-." A silent snarl curls at his lips. "He is young, of eight years. He… well," He gestures at Farielle's face, "Looks much like yourself."

Young. Farielle's face grows still. Eight years old. Looks like her. She is silent, listening, long after Brethedil has finished speaking. "I – " She stops and clears her throat, and starts again. "I will ask. Around. What – what was his name?"

Brethedil is intent upon the changes that come over Farielle's features. "Has there been rumor of such a boy?" A bright, piercing hope shines in the grey sea of the young man's eyes. "His name is Celegnith. He is of my House." This last sentence is said firmly.

"I shall ask," Farielle repeats, firmly, once more in command of herself. She reaches up to veil herself, and makes some gesture or other to her guards, for they both step forward from where they have been watching at a discreet distance.

"Please." Brethedil says, nodding once more, and a small arch coming to his brows at her abrupt ending of their conversation. "That -he- might know the rain of Belfalas again."

But as her guards step forward, so does he step back, and a slow tilt of a bow is given.

Farielle is gone, ignoring the last words, if indeed she heard them, and her guardsmen with her.

After the woman has departed, he is alone, and Brethedil openly kicks at a rock that sits quietly upon the path, sending it flying into the wall with a small 'tap'.

And as if by answer, a voice echoes from the other side of the courtyard, deep and resonant. "Squire."

A tall Gondorian man, burgundy velvet overlaid with the cool linen given to guests, stands between arch and double arch. From a distance, the likeness to the woman is barely distinguishable: blue gaze marred by a scar that runs from eyebrow to lip.

Brethedil's head snaps up, and the youth's eyes soon find the source of the deep echo. First, he blinks. And then, he salutes.

"Sir Eruiglas." Swift are the footfalls that sound behind the Squire, as he approaches the arches, all but brimming with silent inquiry.

Returning the salute, Eruiglas begins to walk slowly down the corridor, pausing for Brethedil to follow.

"To converse with an unfamiliar woman, alone – and unarmed? – was brave of you," he begins warmly.

Brethedil is close at the Knight's heels. "I should prefer to be slain alone, by a woman, than at the side of such company as the Black Paladins had to offer." He scoffs.

A pause, and then: "Unfamiliar woman?" He repeats, regarding Eruiglas with a contorted brow, as if expectant of some jest. "The Lady -Farielle-?"

"But not very prudent," continues Eruiglas smoothly, his only eye flicking to gaze at the Squire with reproach. "I, Squire, should prefer that you remain alive, not dead by a woman's hand…"

He allows Brethedil's astonishment to settle momentarily in the thick air, and then: "… or such other secrets that Umbar has to offer. For the duration of our visit, I expect that you attend to the presence of a Knight at all times. Is that clear?"

Astonishment, indeed — if Brethedil was before brimming with inquiry, it has now overflowed into a pool of confusion, in which the youth appears to be floundering. Eventually, he acknowledges the Knight's stipulation, his visage all frown. "Yes, Sir Eruiglas. It is clear."

A beat, and then: "Did you know?"

"Good," says Eruiglas, and after the moment given to Brethedil, possibly, to find a foothold in his confusion, he adds in a low growl: "In time, Squire. But for now, we do the work of our King in carrying out his offer of peace. That is all."

And perhaps, the pause was also allotted for himself. He smiles, and places a strong hand on the Squire's shoulder. "We should not linger."

Patience? The concept does not fall easily on Brethedil. However, following the low grumbles of the Knight, it is at least acknowledged with a terse nod from the young Palanllach.

Brethedil's posture is straight beneath the weight of Eruiglas' hand. "Very well, Sir." And where the Knight leads, the Squire follows.


	15. A Hidden Child

_**Author's Note: Please Read our Author Profile! This is a work of Role-Play collaberation, and there is a lot of story context outside of these chapters. :) If you'd like to participate, you can connect with us at using the link provided in the profile.**_

_July 24, 3019_

_Seaward Tower – Farielle's Chambers_

_This is a suite of chambers – neither very large, but comfortably appointed – with a connecting door. One room is clearly meant for the maids – it is the smaller of the two, and has two narrow beds, a wide table and several chairs, as well as pegs on the wall where robes hang, and two small chests for other belongings. A high, narrow window permits light and sea-breezes to enter._

_The main room shows signs of a dividing wall built and then torn out. A large bed is pushed against one wall, and a woven green carpet lies on the floor. In contrast to the other rooms in the tower, the main color is not blue, but rather green. And one entire wall is a mural: the sea is there, along the bottom, but the focus of the painting is a high green island with a ship sailing. Strangely, the ship appears to be floating in the sky…_

* * *

An evening that's almost cool in comparison to the high heat that scorched the Umbar paving stones mere hours before has rolled across the city bringing with it small clouds and a gentle wind that twists across the darkening evening sky. The first pinpricks of starlight shimmer between the floating tendrils of the clouds at this hour, and one somewhat tired little fellow is making his way up the tower from the relative seclusion of the kitchens far below.

Still, Celegnith seems to have a nearly fathomness energy that propels him up the stairs with a bounce of thick black hair that's once more becoming a little scruffy as it grows out. The only indication that he might be a weary from his day's work is the sudden yawn that breaks free of his mouth as he pushes the door to Farielle's Suite open with the palm of his hand. Shaking his head as if to throw the yawn off, Celegnith's shake goes down to his shoulders as he lift his gaze to the room. Clearly looking about for a certain lady even as he presses his back against the door to urge it closed.

The lady is standing at the window, staring out unmoving. The lamps have not yet been lit and the room is dim and shadowy – the only light that which comes in from the evening without. She doesn't move or turn at the sound of the door opening and then shutting.

Perking up as he finds the very person he's looking for, Celegnith's light steps bring him almost bouncing across the floor, only slowing a bit when he finally registers the woman's silence. However, there's no hesitation in approaching her even thus. He comes up right next to her, looking up at the woman with his wide blue grey eyes as a small hand extends to claim a hold on a fold of her skirt's material.

Farielle moves now, the stone becoming real and human. She still doesn't speak, nor look away from the window, but an arm goes around his shoulders and she hugs him to herself – very tightly.

The child smiles at the touch, snuggling against Farielle as she pulls him tightly to her. Inquisitive little eyes look between her face and the window, as if he were trying to figure out exactly what she's looking at, until Celegnith finally pipes up in his high voice, "Are you watching the stars tonight?"

"I – yes. Yes, I suppose I was." Farielle's voice is indistinct. "Celegnith…" she begins, and then halts. "Never mind." There is a strange stiffness to how she stands.

Looking from the stars and back up at Farielle at the mention of his name, Celegnith tips his head with a confused little frown in response to her 'nevermind'. The silence between them is unbroken only for a moment, and then the gentle boy tugs on Farielle's skirt as he says simply, "You aren't happy tonight."

Farielle doesn't answer this. She only holds him tighter – perhaps painfully so. "Are – are you happy?" she asks him finally.

If her tight squeezing hurts at all, Celegnith doesn't complain. Wrapping his shorter arms around Farielle, the boy looks up at her with a serious expression on his round face. He seems to struggle for a moment to find the words he wants to express things, but finally his chirp of a voice chimes. "It's hard to be happy in Umbar." A small smile touches his lips, "But you found me, and even in Gondor, I didn't know anyone like you. So, I'm happy I have you."

"Yes," Farielle's quite voice agrees. "I know. I – I don't want to lose you, Celegnith. I have no children. My husband … didn't wish for any."

"I don't have any parents." Hugging Farielle a little tighter, Celegnith declares with a serious little nod, "So, I'll choose to keep you, which means you can't really lose me, you know?" He suddenly gives the woman one of his wide grins, "Just like the rest of your family and my family are still in Gondor, they're still ours aren't they? Forever. No matter what happens or where we go." Sticking out his tongue, Celegnith adds with a giggle, "Though I didn't get to choose any of them."

Farielle turns from the window, wrapping the little boy in both her arms. Bending her heads, she shuts her eyes.

But something in his words makes her stiffen, and look up again. Naked on her face, here where no one can see her, she allows the immensity of loss and pain to show – just for a moment.

And then, voice steady, she says, "I think you must resign yourself to staying in the Tower for now…"

Wriggling back enough to catch just a glimpse of her expression, Celegnith frowns and just cuddles back in to hug her all the tighter. "I'll do whatever you want me to do, Farielle. As long as you want me here with you, I'll stay. Even if that means staying in the tower more." Puffing out his cheeks, he sighs, apparently considering something further before asking curiosuly, "Do you think your maids like playing games?"

That moment of self-betrayal is gone in an instant. Her arms tighten around him once more, then loosen. "I don't know," Farielle says. "Perhaps you should ask them."

"Celegnith .. what would … " Those few words are gotten out with difficulty, but the lady stalls here, and finally ends, ".. what sort of game would you like to play?"

"Mmm." Celegnith considers the question for an inordinatly long moment. "Rooks and Kings!" The child declares with a giggle as he stands on his toes for a moment and the leans backwards on his heels before leaning forward on his toes the next moment. "Do you think your maids know that one? I bet Karasor knows it. He would be hard to beat!" Celegnith widens his eyes at this realization, and he drops his voice in a conspiratorial whisper as he speaks to Farielle, "Maybe you can convince him to come play with me too."

"Leena might know it," Farielle says, smiling a little, though her eyes are still sad. "You may ask Karasor also."


	16. Rooks and Kings

**Author's Note: Please Read our Author Profile! This is a work of Role-Play collaberation, and there is a lot of story context outside of these chapters. :) If you'd like to participate, you can connect with us at using the link provided in the profile.**

_July 27, 3019_

_Umbar: Farielle's Chambers_

_This is a suite of chambers – neither very large, but comfortably appointed – with a connecting door. One room is clearly meant for the maids – it is the smaller of the two, and has two narrow beds, a wide table and several chairs, as well as pegs on the wall where robes hang, and two small chests for other belongings. A high, narrow window permits light and sea-breezes to enter._

_The main room shows signs of a dividing wall built and then torn out. A large bed is pushed against one wall, and a woven green carpet lies on the floor. In contrast to the other rooms in the tower, the main color is not blue, but rather green. And one entire wall is a mural: the sea is there, along the bottom, but the focus of the painting is a high green island with a ship sailing. Strangely, the ship appears to be floating in the sky…_

* * *

It's early evening now in Seaward, and normally one young slave boy would still be downstairs in the kitchens – helping prepare for the evening meal. Or, perhaps, running about the gardens on a break from his duties. Today, however, is not a 'normal' day at all.

For his own protection, Farielle's pulled Celegnith away from the kitchen almost entirely and forbidden him even outside in the tower's gardens until the furor created by certain new arrivals quiets down. Indeed, the child has spent almost the entire day in Farielle's room or in the company of one of her maids. His questions nearly ceaseless as they always seem to be, and his energy the boundless depths of a nine year old with no task to set himself to.

Already, a small corner of Farielle's rooms is littered with a slowly growing pile of discarded books and children's games. Some don't appear to have held Celegnith's interest for long. Instead of any of these, he's sitting atop a thick book in front of a game table with one of the other maid's, his face a little scrunched up as he moves a piece into position with careful fingers. Rooks and Kings it would seem – and the maid isn't fairing well against the little boy in the least. Her face is a mask of frustration as she stares at the board, clearly out of her element entirely.

The sharp crack of knuckles knocking against the door sounds through the room. Soon after, the heavy hinges creak in a slow and whining tune, permitting the passage of a man, red-robed and scarf-hooded.

"I received a message that my company was requested." He says, in smooth tones. Eyes flicker to the chess board, and then the boy — who receives a knowing nod.

The maid? She is dismissed with a silent sweep of his hand.

The maid looks positively relieved to be dismissed. The woman almost visibly relaxes before standing from the table and giving Celegnith a pat on his head as she gives the child a gently scolding look. Nodding to Karasor before she hurries from the woman, the maid says in softly Haradric, "Watch he doesn't run you ragged too."

Celegnith's grinning widely as he wriggles his way off the book, "You came!" A few bounding steps take him over to Karasor, and the little boy looks up with a laugh before admitting with a sheepish rub at his scruffy black hair, "I was kind of getting bored already."

"You must hardly know the meaning of 'ragged'." Is Karasor's soft, Haradaic reply as the maid trails away.

Lichen eyes turn upon the boy, and his features are kind, dripping with an endless patience. "You summoned me, did you not?" Hands rise, and the thin black scarf is pulled away from head, falling lightly about his neck. "I hope that my company is up to the task."

He indicates the chess board again with a silent motion, he himself moving in that direction to be seated. Each piece is meticulously returned to its proper home, among its kind. "The Lady has bid you not to leave the tower?"

Still grinning widely, Celegnith bounds back over to the chess table, pulling himself back up atop his book perch, "I think you'll be hard to win against… so that means you're just right!" Crossing his arms across his chest, the boy nods once, a serious expression on his features as he freely admits why he wanted Karasor to come. Rocking forward a little, his eyes widen as his face goes a bit less serious as he nods in response to the question, "Farielle wants me to stay inside – just in case. She seems really worried to me."

"You prefer a challenge." Karasor comments, approvingly. A white pawn is slowly slid one square forward. "In case?" Finally, the man lifts his attention to focus on the young boy, intently. "And what, Celegnith, is she worried of?"

"It's better that way – don't you think?" Celegnith replies as he considers the board. "If it's not a challenge… then the game gets boring before it's even over with." Carefully choosing a pawn, the child moves it forward two space as he replies, "Lady Farielle didn't say exactly." Frowning deeply at this, the child looks up, "But all the people in the kitchen the other day were talking about some delegation that's come from Gondor. I didn't catch every word – sometimes they talk too fast. I think she's worried about that. Maybe she thinks they're going to start fighting."

"Yes, I agree." A pawn? No, a priest, is slid smoothly to the side of the board. "You must never become comfortable with a certain simplicity." His fingers linger on the piece for but two seconds before withdrawing.

A small perk comes to Karasor's brown brows. "Perhaps," He says, regarding the boy for a moment. "Does she meet with them, these Gondorians?"

Biting the tip of his thumb while watching Karasor's move, Celegnith reaches for one of his knights a moment later, shifting it out from behind the row of pawns. The child shakes his head slowly at the question, then scratches at his scruffy hair. "Maybe. She's not talking much, Karasor. She was making this face the other night."

Accompanying this statement Celegnith makes his best impersonation of Farielle looking worried and preoccupied. For the boy, this pretty much amounts to him staring grimly at Karasor from under lowered brows. Not exactly like Farielle's own expression, but it certainly communicates something.

Karasor watches the expression of the young boy with a keen interest. "That is a troubling face, indeed." He agrees.

The fingers of one hand drum upon the surface of the table in a soft rhythm. "Surely, your well-being is foremost on her mind." The others grasp the head of another pawn, which is put two paces forth. "And what do -you- think, Celegnith? Of this delegation?" He looks up.

After a moment's consideration, another pawn comes forward a single space on Celegnith's next move. Karasor's answer, however, is longer in coming, and Celegnith swings his legs back and forth a little as he considers it. "I hadn't thought too much about it. I don't know a whole lot. Is it a big group, a little group? What are they here for? Do I know anyone in the group? Do they know that I'm here?" Celegnith frowns and rocks back and forth atop the large book providing him with a better look of the table from his chair. "I mostly feel curious. I want to know what's going on, but no one's telling anything."

Karasor watches the board again, but those same brows that had perked, are now lowered in the mildest of furrows. His fingers grasp the head of a knight, but he pauses, as Celegnith speaks of certain possibilities. Finally, he moves the piece, leaping out in front of his advancing line of pale soldiers. "I know little more than you."

Then, a small twitch of his nose. "Celegnith, are you sitting, on a book?"

Nodding his head once in response, Celegnith grims a bit guiltily but is not terribly repentant, "I couldn't see the top of the table when I sat in the chair…." And a priest slips out from behind Celegnith's pawns as the child suddenly leans forard and makes his move – as if suddenly seeing exactly what it was he should do.

But for the moment, Karasor is not concerned with the board. A hand is held out, expectantly. "Show it to me." He says, "A fine book must be treated with care, Celegnith. These are the wisdoms of many men you will never have fortune to meet, save by the words they leave in their pages."

Sliding off the book, Celegnith almost dissapears behind the table for a moment, but with a heft of the tome, he pops back into sight and brings it around to Karasor. It seems it's a rather heavy old thing with pages well darkened from time, "Whoever wrote this one wrote a whole lot too."

The book falls heavily into Karasor's hands. The cover is lifted, and a finger is brought to his mouth, licking it before turning the page in a slow, crinkling motion.

A small curl of displeasure creeps at the edge of his mouth, as his eyes scan the paper. "Anzilenor." He says. He closes the cover with a 'thud', and holds the heavy tome back out to the boy.

"My apologies." He says, flatly. "This is, in fact, a seat."

Watching Karasor's inspectiong of the book with curious blue grey eyes, Celegnith blinks at the mention of that particular name and then the boy begins to smile again, suddenly breaking into a giggle as he accepts the heavvy book back. "I'll make sure to sit on this one a lot for you, Karasor." The boy's still giggling to himself as he brings the book back around to his chair, thunking it back into position.

"Excellent." The smallest of twinkles is in Karasor's eyes as they share a moment of mirth over the ancient tome. Then, he returns his attention to the board before them. The queen, carved into the likeness of a great priestess in flowing robes, is placed a single space from her home.

"Do the other slaves mind, Celegnith," He inquires, suddenly. "That you are given berth here in the Lady's own Chambers?"

Popping back up over the edge of the table as he regains his seat, Celegnith spends several moments studying the board before him before he reaches out to nudge another pawn tow spaces forward and into position with a fingertip. "Some of them do, but some would dislike me even if I was treated more like them." Celegnith shrugs once and grins at Karasor. "I look different and talk different than them. Smoetimes, though, I've gotten to play with the other kids my age. Some are mean, some are shy, and some try to be nice…"

Karasor pauses, and then, drags his priest along the board, eventually colliding with the black Knight, which he plucks away to the tableside. "Do you like to play with the children of your own age?"

The hands are folded, and rested on the surface before him. "Yes, well. You have little to gain from being treated like them."

Scrunching up his nose at the taking of the knight, Celegnith pauses to consider things for a long moment on the board, checking it seems for various possible moves before he slides his rook up to nestle among the pawns he's moved out onto the board. "Sometimes I like it… but…." The child replies a bit distractedly at first.

A few moments thought later, and Karasor recieves a more thoughtful explanation. "Sometimes it's not fun either because I spend too much time trying to figure out what they think of me and trying to figure out how to make them like me better…."

One of Karasor's own Knights hops across the board, and after a moment of careful, squinting contemplation of this move, he says, "It is of little matter whether others come to like you, so long as they do not question you."

Without much ado, he adds, "Checkmate."

"Question me…?" The child begins to ask softly, perhaps not fully understanding what exactly Karasor means, but distraction comes easily. Leaning over to look at the move Karasor just did, Celegnith exclaims in a soft voice, "I knew you'd be fun!" Looking up he grins, "Let's play another game!"


	17. Two Likenesses, and a Message

**Author's Note: Please Read our Author Profile! This is a work of Role-Play collaberation, and there is a lot of story context outside of these chapters. :) If you'd like to participate, you can connect with us at using the link provided in the profile.**

_July 27, 3019_

_Umbar: Court of Anor_

_The court here is surely as old as the Court of the Moon, but the mosaic set into the pavements shows more wear. Perhaps the stone used is not so durable. Some pieces are clearly newer – where loose stones have been replaced. But still the design is there – a sun in glory, its rays spreading out to the edges of the court, and dark shapes of men and ships sailing a blue sea._

* * *

On this day, the court of Anor receives little of the light that might come from its namesake, blotted out by a thick blanket of ominous, low-hanging clouds. The gusty breeze that stirs through the air is warm: the harbringer of storms.

But the stone beneath the feet of Brethedil Palanllach II is dry yet, and that is where the young man's eyes are fixed, studying the dark shapes of ships that roll on a mosaic sea.

A few paces away, a Black Paladin sulks gloomily — occasionally looking up to ensure that the youth still stands there, but mostly occupied with inspecting his fingernails.

There are footsteps first, three pair in all, marching with a cadence that while not precise is clearly coordinated, nearly military. The footsteps stop short of this court, and then only one pair continues onward as a young man emerges into the Court of the Moon.

And such a sight is he: tall, pale, grey eyed, dark hair neatly combed and pushed behind his ears, face scrubbed brilliantly clean, jawline of a strong family line. And his tabard one of audacity: deep night black it is, yet bold and emblazoned upon it in silver-worked stitching, the Heron and Tree. Sigil of Ar-Gimilkhor, fallen would-be King of Gondor.

Mikkan steps forth.

"Man of Gondor," he says after a moment.

The argent gaze of Brethedil snaps up from the stone. It falls upon Mikkan, with the weight of boulders; his posture stiff, erect.

He steps forward, under the suddenly watchful gaze of the Paladin, to meet the other youth — and they are two likenesses, across the mirror of Belfalas. Where here is Black, there is Blue. Where Heron, Swan.

And upon those raven brows, a frown. "Man of Umbar." Comes Brethedil's response.

There's a shock of recognition in Mikkan's eyes, at least for a split second–his composure broken momentarily, for he voices a small grunt.

But he straightens his back once more, well trained despite his youth. He tilts his head in a nod of acknowledgement.

"You are a Squire of the Swansmen, I see. I would like to speak with your commander of this delegation. Can you bring me to him?"

"Yes, I am." Brethedil's appraisal of Mikkan is one of lingering glances, from head to foot. "And you, bearing the mark of the Pretender," There is no nod, no tilt — merely a hard line set to his jaw, and a piercing stare as it rises to meet the other's. "Who are you?"

"I would ask the same of you, Squire," the youth answers, "yet I deem you are correct–it is rude of me to demand an audience yet not give my name. I am," he says, drawing himself up proudly, "Mikkan anAlkhaszor, son of Alkhaszor anAlkhaszor, who was Herald to the K…to Ar-Gimilkhor," he says, correcting himself on the last after a momentary stumble. The correction, though, does not mar his proud bearing. "And I come to seek an audience with the commander of your delegation."

It might not be widely known that Alkhaszor was once Ceredir Bragollach–not likely by a younger Bragollach, in fact. But certainly the names of Ar-Gimilkhor and Alkhaszor, who once held Anfalas, might be reknowned among the Swansmen, if not all of Gondor by now.

And indeed, a sudden flame blazes in the stormy eyes of the Gondorian youth as these names fall from the lips of Mikkan — one that is quelled only by the swift and reproachful "AHEM" given by the unfortunate Paladin who minds him.

There remains a tension on those long fingers, curled into his palms, at his sides. "I am Brethedil Palanllach the Second, son of Lord Talenion Palanllach, Blue Squire of the Order of the Swan — as you have duly noted." This is added with a small twitch of his features. "Most of the delegation, lord Cilinor included, is presently disposed with a meeting, of closed doors."

A pause lingers in the air, then: "I am a capable messenger."

Amusement flits every so briefly across Mikkan's face, his eyes upon the Paladin and then back to Brethedil. But his tone of voice speaks of curiousity and recognition both: "Palanllach," he says, the name said slowly, considering. He looks anew to the Squire, eyes alighting on the sign of a flame upon his tabard. "Yes, yes," he nods–and smiles, explaining not its cause.

"A capable messenger? Then I would require your word of honor–and that of your guardsman–that you will reveal this meeting and my words to you to no one but the commander."

"My word is honor." Brethedil stands tall and unrelentingly serious beneath the amused scrutiny of Mikkan. "My guard," A long and meaningful stare is given to the Paladin now, "Will leave us, if I may have yours that I shall suffer no ill in sending him so, nor speak of it."

"You have my word on it," says Mikkan, whose demeanor had change to something quite serious upon making the initial request. "In addition to the prohibition against weapons and fighting in the palace, which no man of Umbar will break. I will neither harm you nor speak of your guard's departure to any."

"Very well." And that same long hand is raised, and swept through the air — a dismissal which sends the Paladin striding away with an indignant sneer.

Brethedil levies his attentions fully upon the Umbarian youth, an expectant perk in his dark brows.

The echo of the Paladin's footsteps have long died out before Mikkan speaks, though he hesitates at first, taking in the Squire's expression.

"I am afraid I will disappoint you by the brevity and simplicity of that which I ask you to convey, given my request for your word of honor."

"You know who and what I am, where my loyalties are. Or.." he grimaces, "were."

"And now, given that, I would ask for an audience before your commander. I ask one thing of him: his help."

"Disappoint?" The Squire's expression is hard, and riddled with contemplation. "Only were the complexity of your request an indication of its nature."

"Which, it seems, is not the case." There is a very small, if true, note of curiosity that colors his tone as he continues: "And for what, Mikkan anAlkhazor of such loyalties as yours, would you request the aide of Cilinor Cirdain, delegate of the peace appointed by the King of Gondor?" The implication is not veiled.

"Ah, yet, but here is the disappointment: Of such things I will not speak," Mikkan answers steadily. "For a man," the 16-year-old continues, "does not beg a boon by proxy."

"As for your King…" he starts, voice trailing off and his focus drifting into the distance. He speaks again, controlling the pain that had tinged his words a moment ago. "As for your King, he has defeated mine. I hear he is a great Necromancer. But that is a discussion for another time."

"Indeed," And beneath the overtones of stiff reserve that dominate Brethedil's features, there is a hint of a twist at the lips of the elder of the youths. "A man does not."

A snort, in nature similar to that of a bull presented with a red cloth, passes from Brethedil's snout. "For such a King, even dead men honor oaths." And of this, no more is said.

Finally, he inclines his head. "I will relay your message, and to none but lord Cilinor. May his answer be swift, and just."

There is a flash of anger in Mikkan's eyes, that flame of heat that marks his heritage, and one hand balls into a fist. He takes a few breaths, ragged, then speaks. "Then I trust to your honor to deliver my message well. But say this to your commander, so that perhaps he has a sense that I seek him for a reason that is not youthful and trivial: the lives of innocents are at stake."

"Do not send word to me of his answer, though–I will send a man daily until a decision is made."

He turns to leave, though now he smiles halfway. "Well met, Palanllach."

Brethedil observes the heat that passes through Mikkan, as it had himself but moments ago, with a certain attentiveness.

"anAlkazhor." He does not smile, nor turn, grey gaze trailing Mikkan's departure.


	18. No Such Child

**Author's Note: Please Read our Author Profile! This is a work of Role-Play collaberation, and there is a lot of story context outside of these chapters. :) If you'd like to participate, you can connect with us at using the link provided in the profile**

_July 31, 3019_

_Court of Trees_

_The gates are unguarded, save when a Council is in session – then men and women of all the Towers keep watch, requiring that any weapons carried within be peace-bound. Inside the Palace Grounds, it is green and lovely – an oasis in the middle of a city of dust and stone. Olives, figs, palm trees, lemons – these can all be found scattered among other, non-fruiting trees. Carefully tended pathways lead among the trees, and around the Palace to the other courtyards._

* * *

An afternoon of sunshine, a few high wisps of cloud. And heat – always heat. Though as winter approaches, it is less than it was. The Lady Farielle, stands beneath an olive tree and waits – one of her servants has been sent to find the Gondorian, Brethedil. For once, she has no guardsmen with her – they linger near the gate. Not far, but not near either. Here at the palace, she is the safest of anywhere in the city, save at Seaward Tower itself.

The servant soon returns, and the swift footfalls of Brethedil are not far behind. The shadows of the olive leaves create dark dapples against his fair face, where he pauses, written with an anxious hope.

"I cannot be long, without the company of a Knight." This is stated first. And then, with a thirsty gaze: "What news, Lady Farielle?"

"There is no news of a child being taken to Black Tower," Farielle tells him with no preamble. "I asked Lord Askar who, I believe, would know and he tells me there have been none. No Gondorian child. I believe him." She gives him a nod of her head, as if she would turn away. As if she would leave this place as swiftly as she might.

Is this news a relief? There is a cacophony of possibilities that swim upon Brethedil's moving brows, as he receives it.

Yet, as she turns, he seems all in a hurry to delay her with more inquiries. "And you believe that Lord Askar's word is one of honor?" He asks, turning with her. "Where else ought I to seek?"

In this moment, there is no pride on Brethedil's firm jaw. Desperation, yes. That's the one.

Farielle turns back, reluctantly. "I believe he told the truth," she corrects. She glances at him, her eyes dropping away from his face almost at once, and is silent for a long moment, looking down at the ground. At last, voice expressionless, she says, "Not all captives are brought to Umbar." Each word is spoken flat and slow, with a space around it. As if it doesn't wish to be spoken at all. Farielle doesn't look up. "Some are sold to men of desert tribes…"

Grave. Fallen. These are accurate descriptors of Brethedil's face as Farielle suggests that his young kin may have met a desert fate. The tall youth's lower lip is caught between his teeth, looking down upon the Lady with a storm in his grey eyes.

Finally, he speaks, in a low tone. "Perhaps." He says. "And perhaps I shall return ten years hence, to find him a Steward of a tower." And with that, he releases her, with a slow tilt of his head.

The lady holds herself straight beneath his words, her face like stone. Saying nothing, she bows her head to him and leaves. Her slender figure is upright, shoulders set. And if in her eyes is the lifelessness of despair, there are none now to see it.

"Thank you, Lady." Brethedil calls after her, as if remembering such things too late. And then he too turn back towards the palace, a distinct drag to the steps that before were stiff and swift.


	19. I've Given Him Back

**Author's Note: Please Read our Author Profile! This is a work of Role-Play collaberation, and there is a lot of story context outside of these chapters. :) If you'd like to participate, you can connect with us at using the link provided in the profile.**

_August 7, 3019_

_Seaward Tower – Library_

_Many tomes and scrolls, mostly old but a few of more recent vintage, prominently line the walls of this eastern chamber, filling shelves that are seven feet high. Yet, equally important is the desk beneath the eastern window, and a small arrangement of couches and footstools; here the Lord receives more intimate guests than in the vast hall below. A discrete door leads to a small study._

_Following the gentle curve of the wall are the windows, six in all from the northeast to the southeast. During the long mornings, the sun makes this the brightest chamber in the Tower, and dust motes from the ancient tomes dance in the sunlight. But the wonders of this room can barely compete with the breathtaking view of Umbar provided by the windows._

* * *

Despite the heavy fog and general air of looming darkness as evening approaches, there are still few lanterns, and far between, that are lit in the library. Windows have been shut tight against the moisture, and the most precious of literary relics tucked away safely.

The only noise is a rhythmic scritch-scratching — that of Karasor's long quill on the sheet before him. But every so often, his work is paused and a glance is given towards the door. After the third such instance, there is a mildly expectant expression that accompanies it.

The door opens at last. But possibly the one who comes in is not who Karasor is expecting. Farielle pauses to let her eyes become accustomed to the dimness before looking around. "Karasor." She comes towards the table he sits at, face more impassive and stony than is usual even for her.

"Lady Farielle." If she was not the one that the man expected, she is greeted nonetheless with a calm. "Your ward is late for his lessons."

The quill is put down to the table with a small 'tick'. "You must stress to him the importance of punctuality."

Farielle pauses beside the table, turning so that the faint light of the candle puts most of her face in shadow. "That is what I have come to speak with you regarding." She stops. A moment passes in silence. "I have taken him to the Gondorians at the Palace."

Karasor, however, does not guard his features so closely among ancient tomes, and his scarf lies about his neck. Therefore, the look that overcomes him would be quite visible to Farielle. Is it surprise? Yes, a true moment in which his head lifts, and he blinks. Once.

The tambre of his voice, however, remains impassive. "That… was prudent of you." He says. "Does he wish to return with them?"

"I do not know. I didn't ask." Farielle's voice is hard. "I expect his – cousin will see to it that he does."

"His cousin?" And now, Karasor's face joins the ranks of Farielle's among stone and ice. He is silent for a moment, but there echoes a 'thunk' through the library as he begins to move the tomes that were set out on the table beside him back into a neat stack.

"What strokes of fate, that his kin were sent as delegates." Thunk. Thunk.

"Yes."

"Wasn't it."

Farielle's hands clench into fists at her side, and she stares at nothingness for a moment.

Thunk. The legs of Karasor's chair scrape against the floor as he pushes back, rising, to take this stack of books into his arms. But then, he stares at the woman.

"Farielle."

"This is what you wished." Yet the small rise in the man's brows might indicate that this is more of a question than the statement it seems.

Something jumps in Farielle's face. "Yes," she says, as if trying to convince herself. "It – it is better that he goes. He could not remain here. It wasn't safe. He – he must return to his family. I didn't – " Those last two words, very quiet, are cut off as soon as she hears herself speak them.

She turns her face to look down at Karasor. "It must be this way. I wish to thank you. Also."

"Yes. Ultimately, he could not remain here. He is not a child of this land." Karasor affirms Farielle's words, calm in the face of her broken tone, but the hard lines of his previous expression fading away for a brief moment.

"And you?" He adds, his tone dropping into a half-audible register, "For I have not forgotten your offer."

A tilt of his head. "To thank me, Lady?"

The candle-light glints off something in Farielle's shadowed eyes. But after a minute, when, she sits down, there are no tears. "And?" she asks him, discarding his own question for the moment.

A nod. "For assisting me. In keeping him safe."

"You would do best to exclude me from your consideration." These quiet words are his answer, or as much as it may be, from him. "Yet," He continues, levying a light and unwavering gaze upon Farielle as she sits, "You give the boy to those who would receive more with open arms."

He pauses. A clear consideration is given to his final words. "My service was mostly to his usual teacher, I am certain, that he will not have fallen from his studies in his absence."

"You will stay here, then?" Farielle asks, equally quietly.

"Perhaps." There is a note of bitterness, of sorrow that she feels no need to suppress. "My brother … did not recognize me."

"I am certain his – his tutor will find him behind in now way. He enjoyed his time with you, you know." And as if speaking of her brother were the catalyst, she can no longer stop her voice from trembling.

"I cannot go with you." Karasor answers, regardless of her question.

Her bitterness is met with a strange look. "Time breeds blindness," he says, "But you cannot be denied evermore."

There is a hollowness in his voice now, that carries over from this statement to the next, regarding Celegnith. "Yes, I know. He…" And that is all.

Farielle nods. If he will not come, he will not. But … "Why?" she asks, simply.

She gives a quick shake of her head, as if to dismiss her brother from her thoughts. But the sound of his voice – she gives Karasor a strange look. "Why did you wish to buy him?" she asks. "It seems so long ago… I … " She swallows and blinks, and says defiantly, "I will miss him."

Why? Farielle asks many questions, but Karasor just gives the woman a stern look, trailed by a hint of apology?

"Certainly, he will miss you as well." He says, shifting the heavy books in his arms. "He spoke very fondly of you in our lessons. You have done well by him, Farielle." The hollowness has been filled now by an air of unusual, outright approval.

"You will give him my regards, when you visit."

"I shall not see him," Farielle says, voice bleak. She bows her head. "Thank you. I have done my best."

"He is at the palace – you may see him whenever you wish, so long as the delegation remains." Looking up again, another thought coming to mind, she asks, "What think you of that? Shall there be peace?"

A mild concern draws a line between Karasor's brows. "You will not see him?" He presses.

The man's head tilts slowly to the side, eyes straying to the ceiling, as if he might find the answer to her inquiry hanging there among the tall beams. "No," He answers, finally. "Or if there will be peace, it is not brought with this party. Their news is not one that falls easily upon the ears of the Lords of Umbar, in this time."

Farielle nods, preferring for the moment to speak of matters less near to the heart. "Then those of Gondorian blood are likely to find themselves in more peril yet. I spoke with Lord Askar, regarding his proposal, but now he tells me that he cannot, after all, do as he offered."

She shakes her head. "I do not expect that his … cousin will look kindly upon me. And – I do not think I can bear it, to see him, and lose him again." Her voice is flat, as unemotional as one who reads a list of boring exports.

"Would that I found that news more surprising." Karasor responds, a dry distaste curling momentarily in his unshadowed face. "Much has changed with the fall of Ar-Gimilkhor." A breath, "Much."

Yet, the lorekeeper's eyes depart the lofty heights and return to Farielle at her latter words. There is a hint of silent inquiry at her comments on the cousin, but no spoken one. Rather: "If you find your northward path," He says quietly, "Then he is not lost to you."

"Yes." Farielle sighs. "It is no secret that I did not think him fit to be Gondor's king, but neither will I deny that Umbar herself was better ruled before this war." She is silent again, frowning slightly. "Yet, I have spoken with some; I do not now believe the King who now sits that throne is the fell necromancer some say. I will do what I can to urge our people to accept his offer."

Karasor speaks of northward paths, and she only shakes her head a little, vouching him no comment. Until, a moment after, she looks up, the frown returning. "But you…" She stops, leaving the word hanging delicately in the air.

"What words are those, that have convinced you that his command of the dead is not one ill-begotten?" Karasor asks, a hint of a certain thirst in his eyes. "News has been slow to come to me." This, with a flat tone.

He does not leave her words to hang — they are seized, and answered: "As it is no secret where my loyalties have lain."

"I spoke with one of the elven-kin," Farielle answers. "She said that the Dead did follow him, but it was no power of his that brought them, nor could he raise them again. Rather … " She speaks slowly, carefully, to accurately recall what was told. " … those shades had broken an oath to this man's – his name is Aragorn, or Elessar, I am told – to his ancestor – Isildur. And it was by strength of that bloodright that he brought them to fulfill at last the oath they swore. And now they are gone and will not come again."

A nod for his answer. "Yet, I have also heard that many others with loyalties as distant have been pardoned," she offers.

Karasor's eyes all but sparkle for a moment, as he drinks in the words of the woman. "Fascinating," He murmurs, books hanging heavy in his arms, "Yes, a fascinating tale."

Yet with her offer, comes a frown. "It is not the pardon of the new King that I am concerned with." Soon followed by a slow incline of his head; and with that motion, the more customary air of reserve falls over him again, like the thick mist just beyond the near panes of glass. "However, I must attend now to other things. I hope the evening finds you well."

He bows in a slow, small tilt, and moves to turn. But this is added: "Thank you, Lady, for the news. All of it."

"You are most welcome," Farielle replies. "Fair even." She remains where she is, moving after some time to the shelves to take down a book that she will stare at and not read.


End file.
